


The Makers Herald

by Fireskin



Series: The King Under the Mountain [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood and Guts, Darkspawn, Darkspawn Uprising, Drama, F/M, Intrigue, Miracles, Notamage, Old Gods, Political, Romance, Romantic Triangle, Slow Burn, The Chantry, Tranquil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-20 03:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 53,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5989894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fireskin/pseuds/Fireskin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was just a peasant woman who had nothing in a world where “nothing” meant you were just another casualty of those who had or wanted something. She had no flaring mark, no fighting ability, no great wisdom. But what she did have would change the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Ice and Roses

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a working film maker so, even though I want to update every week sometime around Monday, some weeks may get delayed due to hectic film schedules. You can check out my films at http://www.5rainbowproductions.com
> 
> Also, helpful feedback is loved. Cruel feedback means I send dragons to torment you. :D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric says a prayer and the Maker speaks in ice and roses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The newly revised Chapter 1. More Varric is never a bad thing, right?

 

“Makers hairy ball sack,” Varric muttered as he staggered out of Haven's only surviving tavern. Taking a deep breath, he looked up into the _green_ sky of late afternoon. So he'd had a bit much to drink, but with the events of the last few days...He stepped out away from the building a bit then returned his gaze to the heavens.

It was pretty, and creepy, that big green swirly... _hole_ in the sky. “Mostly creepy,” he muttered to himself. A couple moved past him and into the tavern while he ignored them, focused on the breach. It was terrifying. Mages and Templars killing everyone in their path. The Divine dead. Darkspawn, cults, red lyrium and to top it all off, a huge hole in the sky that spat demons like a drunken sailor...spat.

He wasn't a coward, but this… this was beyond heroes, beyond armies, beyond magic.

The whispered prayer just seemed to slip out of him. He barely believed but…“Maker, if you're listening, could you be a buddy and send us a miracle?”

 

Maker but she was tired. Running a hand roughened by hard work through her unkempt hair, she glanced around at the other women drudging laundry in the steaming vats that filled the rickety wash house. Stooped backs and wrinkled faces graced both the old and the young here. Her eyes followed these victims of age, hunger and exhaustion as they washed and wrung and chattered. Suddenly she couldn't bear the trivialities of their chatter. Muttering a short excuse she slipped out the side door.

Outside, she took a moment to breath in the thin mountain air. The sounds of refugee bustle kept Haven less than quiet in the aftermath of the great explosion that had rocked the world… Quiet, now that was something she longed for. Quiet, to grieve for the little one she’d lost. Quiet, to ponder what hope there could possibly be for her. A woman who had nothing and was nothing in a world where “nothing” meant you were just another casualty of those who had or wanted something.

...Death is quiet.

She sighed and moved to re-enter the washing house. Perhaps she could let that chatter drown the thought that kept worming its way into her mind. When she opened the door the sound and smell of despair and fatigue and fear hit her like a solid blow. Something inside her snapped.

Later, out of breath from running and out of what little energy her sudden distress had given her, she found the humble mountain shrine and collapsed in the snow at its overgrown base.

This shrine, a tiny rough carving to the maker, was little frequented. Ignored by those who had made the pilgrimage over the years to celebrate the glory and sacrifice of Andraste. She liked to imagine it felt as lost as she did, and so she’d come here more than once since she’d taken the washing job at Haven to support herself after the death of her child. Often she’d sit here and wonder if the supplicant pilgrims knew how much pain and sweat their devotions cost those who lived and worked in the small community below the great temple. Today, though…

She stared up at the great green hole in the sky. The gossip on the streets touched unreliably on the works of the great and mighty. The hope of the Herald and important things of gods and prophets. But the conversation in the wash house, the life she was part of, was more concerned with the small things of humanity. As her grief had grown, so had her distance from those small things and small people. Now she felt as isolated and inhuman as any stone statue in spite of the coming together the breach in the sky had wrought amongst so many there.

The thought twisted her mouth in a wry smile and she set her back against the frowning stone. “Two of a kind, aren’t we?” The dead brambles that twisted about the rough effigy caught at her hair, drawing a bead of blood from her scalp as her breath fogged the air in front of her.  

She hadn’t slept much since… nightmares of the small hand being torn from her grasp. The wash of blood that had once been the child she’d loved more than breath and life itself. She hadn’t even really understood what the fighting was about. Mages? Templars? What did such things matter to those at the bottom, until their violence stole a precious life away?

Her feet were going numb, and trembling rocked her bone-thin frame. It was time to head back to the village, to shelter and warmth and her work. She bent forward to begin the stiff process of standing, but the brambles, in a way that felt almost insistent, pulled her hair.

Maker, her lips moved in silent prayer, she WAS tired. Too tired to fight anymore and she leaned back into the stone, letting the brambles have her. I wonder if there even is forgiveness for one who has forsaken her vows she thought, but what came out in words was different. “I wonder if they will find me in the spring?” A sad thought, but it made her smile. Perhaps she’d just sleep until then. Let the brambles have their way.

“By gods forsaken, fate emptied of hope…” Her eyes began to droop as the cold seeped into her body. “I used to hate this verse.” Her shivering was fading with the sun...but it wasn’t sunset yet was it? “Wounded I fell then, by grief arrow-studded, never... to heal...” A slight sigh as her voice slowed with her heart. “Never to heal, death for me come.” And then silence.

And in the silence came a voice that was not a voice. Deep and small, old and young, soft as a baby’s sigh and thundering as an army marching to war. Love and hate in equal measure...until the hate fell away and in the last word was only love.

“Heart that is broken, you have forgotten. Within my creation none are alone.”

She startled awake, wondering why she couldn’t move. Panic, then remembrance. She’d died. Or intended to. Her legs ached, though, so she couldn’t be dead yet.

Actually, her entire body ached. She managed to crack an eye open past the ice that had frozen her lashes together. Dawn... or, it looked like dawn, everything seemed so bright. She’d been out here all night! Her stomach clenched in hunger, waking her to the certain understanding that, against all that was real and true, she was not dead. It was that final bit of humanity that forced her past the torpor and into the struggle to move against her frozen clothing. Finally she stood panting on aching, frostbitten feet. Disoriented and confused, she began her slow way back down the mountain to the distant echo of morning work-a-day sound.

And so didn’t notice the rose, perfect and beautiful, growing out of the winding bramble where the brown strands of her captured hair sparkled in the cold.

 

_Below the ground the darkness moved. It writhed and suffered. Even the twisted beings before it shuddered as what was already hideous became more so through the dark thing inside it. Flesh, hair, and… breasts… The mother’s eyes finally opened to them and the horde rejoiced . “The light is in the world. Find it."_


	2. The First Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this world, miracles look a lot like magic.

She'd stumbled her way past the laundry, past the alchemist (with a brief flash of thought that she should go in and discuss frostbite and why she wasn't dead) and past the morning silent tavern. It was difficult to find reality in the snow dampened streets as the memory of whispered words echoed in her ears. _“None now remember. Away from My Light, in darkness unbroken.”_ As her unconscious goal finally came into view, she found herself whispering the last of the words aloud. _“The last of My children, shrouded in night.”_

 

The bonfire was kept fueled day and night for watch, warmth and, Varric liked to think, for his own benefit. He'd chosen it for his as he wrangled and charmed and finagled his way through the web of machinations he kept spun about him. Okay, so it wasn't his own fire, strictly speaking, but he still felt a flash of annoyance as the poorly dressed human woman moved between him and the heat. Add to that her odd whispering, he grimaced, and it was clear she was either drunk or crazy.

“Care to share, Frosty?” The thin, ragged woman turned to face him and his words stumbled for a moment. He could have sworn a halo of light outlined her hair. Nah, just the fire mixing with the sunlight on the frost. That had to be it. “Care to move over a bit? Gotta share those good firelight, uh, pondering...spaces.” Frost on her hair at this time of morning. Weird.

She stared at him without speaking for the space of several breaths and his urge to fill the silence with words took charge. “So, what've you been up to this morning, frosty lady? Ice fishing?”

Her dazed expression gave way to puzzlement. “I think I died last night. I was supposed to.” She swayed on her feet and Varric grabbed her arm to steady her. “Hoookay, let me be the first to tell you that a hangover won't kill you.” He let go of her arm a moment after to flex his fingers. “Frosty indeed. That's one cold arm right there. How about take a little walk with me over to the healers tents.”

“That would probably make sense,” she muttered, following his tug on her hand without resistance. He grunted, “Something better. It's too early in the morning for a puzzle.”

 

The healer's tent was crowded but orderly that morning. Healers, both the few mages that were trusted enough to be here and the Chantry Sisters, moved calmly between the rough pallets holding the sick and injured. The explosion and the outbreak of fighting between templars and mages were clearly keeping the hospital tents filled.

“Sister I have a frosty package for you. May want to thaw it a bit first though.” The dwarf that had taken her in stepped aside and gently pushed her towards the nearest Chantry Sister bent over one of the innumerable injured.

The older woman with the kind face straightened and glanced quickly over her. “What seems to be the problem?” Before she could gather her thoughts to speak, the dwarf chimed in. “Frosty lady here looks like she could use some help. I'm guessing exposure...or insanity” The last he'd muttered under his breath but it didn't really penetrate her attention enough to offend. Instead, her fractured attention focused on his odd clothing. She rather wanted to touch the patch of hair showing through his open neckline.

“Well, there are more immediate needs, take a seat and we'll get to you as quickly as we can, my daughter.” The Sister bent back over her patient.“Thank you Mother.” She replied softly, still feeling disoriented. How odd. It must be from the exposure. She sat, then smiled fuzzily up at her dwarven benefactor. “Thank you for helping me. I don't know why I feel so odd right now.” He grinned.

“No need to say anything. Glad to do it Frosty. It's been fun, but I've got a war to keep from getting out of ha…”

Screaming at the end of the tent drew both their attention, as well as a rush of healers converging on the woman bent over one of the pallets.

“Shhh… there's nothing that can be done. I'm so sorry. You're upsetting the other patients.” The soothing voices of the healers were buried by the cries of the grieving woman.

Such screams, like hers when her child had been killed. The screams of someone in pain so deep that the world could collapse and it wouldn't cease it. She couldn't help but be drawn to it, the dwarf stomping after her, drawn by his own curiosity or, perhaps, his own memories of pain.

The Chantry Sisters tried to push her away, but there was something...something she should do, so she pushed back. Parting the crowd around the pallet until she stood at the front.

She didn’t want to see this. Why had she come over here?

The screaming woman at her feet keening in agony was young, as was the dead man...boy cooling in a pool of his own blood on the pallet. “He bled too much, too fast. I'm sorry, there was little we could do. Now come with me child. This does no one any good.” She watched the Mother step in and with quiet authority try to pull the young woman to her feet. Then she watched the young woman resist being taken from the boy she mourned so desperately.

And she realized she loved them. This simply dressed woman/girl with rough hands and broken heart and this boy/man who had tried to be a soldier and payed such a price. She loved them so much it hurt. So much it filled the world and the heavens and her whole self and spilled out into her hands.

So she knelt and touched the boy and that love poured from her hands into his still form. “I love you.” No, that was the wrong words. She opened her mouth to start again and the right words came. “The Maker loves you.” But her words were buried in their collective gasps of shock as the dead boy sucked in a huge breath and began coughing.

“Goerg!” The young woman's wail of joy, filled with tears and the surprised rush of the healers to check that he was, indeed, not dead pushed her back away from the couple. In fact, it covered what could be called her retreat as she stumbled away from them in confusion. What had just happened?

“What just happened?” The dwarfs gruff voice echoed her own thoughts as he looked between her and the crowd hovering over the so strangely recovered young man, a very odd look on his face.

“I loved them.” Was all she could manage. “Loved them?” The dwarven man shook his head at her. “I think, Frosty, that I need to keep an eye on you while we figure this out. Bringing random people back from the dead sounds a lot like a magic I’ve never heard of before.”

“But...I'm not a mage,” she managed as he took her arm and lead her, unresisting, from the tent. “Mage or not, we're going to be real close until I have some real answers.”

 

_The first of the twisted hunters moved into the above world, blinking in the glow of the hideous green light writhing above them. The largest of them grunted, motioning to the smaller of the twisted beings and gesturing out...and out they spread, destroying as they were want to do. But also...searching._


	3. Not a Mage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric shows some steel, Solas misses a clue and our Herald finds a champion in Sera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts on what's actually happened to our Herald? 
> 
> And thank you so much for reading. :) I'm sending you good dragon karma for it.

As the talkative dwarf gently dragged her back into the freezing daylight, she found herself shivering again. Would she never feel warm? At least the cold seemed to help her snap out of the strange reverie that had held her since she'd awakened frozen to the abandoned Makers statue.

Finally she pulled back on his hand (which didn't let go of her, making her just a shred uncomfortable). “Thank you for helping me, but...it's late and I should get to work.”

“Work?” His raspy voice sounded dubious. “What kind of 'work' does a mage who raises people from the dead do?

With cogency came fear at his words and her response was more biting than she had intended. “Do I look like a mage? I'm a laundress. A peasant. A nobody. A nobody who needs to get back to the laundry before my boss gives my job to another of the starving nobodies here.”

She pulled on her captured hand with what limited strength she had, and his grip tightened to the point of pain.

“What better place for a blood mage to hide than in with the rabble. Honestly, it's a brilliant plan, Frosty. However, it's not a plan I intend to let succeed so you have a couple of choices. One, keep me in a good mood, which requires your cooperation on our little walk here, and we go talk to a friend of mine who has a slightly relaxed attitude towards the less accepted forms of magic. Or two, put me in a bad mood by, oh...say...struggling, and we go visit the knight commander who just happens to also have been a templar.” He smiled up at her. Odd, the thought flashed through her mind, how he could have a gaze of steel AND a twinkle at the same time.

“A templar with a reputation as the hardest, meanest, maker forsaken piece of law abiding mage hater in town. So...I suggest cooperation as the better choice. Besides...” he grinned up at her. “I'm known for my charm. How could you go wrong cooperating with this handsome mug.”

She noted he still hadn't let go of her arm. With a swallow she nodded. “Okay, I'll...cooperate.” His smile was warmer suddenly, even though she was still shivering. “But I'm still not a mage.”

“Varric Tethras then, at your service.” He tucked her captured arm beneath his in a gallant gesture that belied the fact that he still had a grip of steel on it. “And your name is?”

“Angelica.”

***

Solas stood outside the door to the small hut that he’d been assigned near the alchemists workroom, ostensibly reading one of the few treasured books he’d managed to salvage in this forsaken backwater. In truth, though, the text meant nothing to sightless eyes as his ears were more focused on listening at that moment. Attempting to glean the bits of information being dribbled by the various passersby. Less than bits, really. He sighed at the truly plebeian nature of all the morning's passing discussions.

“10,000 years of existence all lost when I die of boredom.” He muttered to himself.

“What's that Chuckles? Talking to yourself is a sign of senility I'm told.”

Solas turned smoothly to face the surprisingly silent approach of the dwarf, and paused, eyebrows raised as he noted in swift order his steely smile, the overly firm grip on his companion, and the companion herself, cowering behind him.

A peasant? Lanky brown hair, unremarkable brown eyes, the knotted hands and starved frame of the hardworking poor. Clothing that had been patched so much that it looked like it would fall off her in a rain of tattered fabric at the next breeze. At least it was clean. Her hands were clean as well, moreso than most peasants he'd encountered.

“And speaking to the senile is a sign of desperation. What brings you here this morning?” Solas smooth rejoinder not really masking his piercing study of the woman. But then, she was a peasant, it didn't have to.

“A puzzle, my elvish friend.” As Solas attention jumped overly swiftly to him, Varric smiled smugly. “I, Varric Tethras, have put it upon myself to find the odd and unusual, the puzzling and perspicacious to enlighten the tedium...” “What is it?” Solas interrupted before the dwarf could really get started. Varric pulled the peasant woman in front of him and gave a half bow, as if presenting a gift. “A mage.”

“I'm not a mage!” The woman sputtered, her voice dying under the intent gaze of the tall elf. “I'm certain there are many apostate mages hiding amongst us these days. It's hardly a puzzle.” Solas bit down a small sense of disappointment.

“But not one that can raise the dead.”

“Mages raise the dead all the time. It's called Necromancy.”

“Not like this, they don't.” Varric paused for maximum effect. “She brought a dead man back to life. Fully back, not undead.” He smiled at the nervous woman as Solas moved to take her chin and peer closely at her eyes. “In a tent full of Chantry sisters no less. Gotta give you points for either courage or stupidity, Frosty.”

“I'M NOT A MAGE!”

Finally the mixture of fear, confusion, cold and frustration overwhelmed the well learned deference to those more powerful than her. Angelica summoned the strength to yank her arm from Varric's grip and her face from Solas' much more gentle touch.

“I'm not a mage and you aren't the guard. You don't have any right to treat me like this! You're no better than...than...”

A flash of memory, a tiny body trampled under an armored foot lunging at it's real target. A man with a staff, much like the one carried by the elf. She'd been knocked down, injured and unable to stand, to move. Only able to lay there next to her baby, and watch as the eyes dimmed and the blood ran. She hadn't even been able to reach out. She'd hoped she was dying too.

“Hey, hey Frosty, we're just trying to figure this out so we can all be safe. Even you.” The dwarfs voice was calming, friendly as she backed away from his slow advance. “You don't need to cry. We're not going to hurt you. It's okay.”

She hadn't realized she was crying.

“You're all a bunch of arse-biscuits. You know that.” As the two men glanced away from her to this new speaker, Angelica took the moment to step behind the building and run.

“Piss bags punching on a little person.”

“But Sera, she's an apostate.”

“Don't care, his high and mighty  Andrasteness wants you two in the saddle chop chop. Lucky you, get to go play with the mages.”

And then their voices were lost to her as she ducked down the street and joined a group of the unwashed and invisible.

 

_Their heavy feet stomped across the blood stained ground, crushing the newly decaying bodies with unconcern. Another battlefield abandoned by those too harried or decimated to bury the dead._

_The largest stopped, uncertainty written in his hideous features as he cast about, smelling the rot, sensing the terrible energy of this place. The recognition broadcast by the mother always in his head. The hive mind working to hunt out what even their quarry didn't know would become true._

_A pile of armored and robed dead stopped his progress, a dead mass of hate mixed with the tattered clothing of those who could not fight, but could die. Guided, he plucked out an incongruity. A tiny form, crushed and forsaken. The Mothers voice echoing in his head...bring it to me. It smells of the future. It is hers.”_


	4. The First Disciple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm not a Mage!" 
> 
> (limited trigger warnings for some slight torture)
> 
> Enter Leliana.

The 'slap woosh slap' of the clothing drudged through the water was soothing Angelica decided. 

She'd initially crept around the village like a mouse after her escape from the odd dwarf. Terrified that he or one of the elves would find her. That they would report her to the templars (I'm not a mage, she mouthed to herself) or the Inquisition guard. That the Chantry mother would recognize her and... But as the days had passed her fear had drifted away. The dwarf and the elf had gone with the Herald of Andraste to do something, Maker only knew what. That kind of information certainly never made it to the lower levels of citizenship. 

Burying her hands in the warm water she sighed. Since the night on the mountain she was always cold. She'd even taken to sleeping in the tiny, muddy alcove hidden behind the straw beside the forge at the blacksmiths, rather than her own ragged bunk in the women's quarters. The blazing heat, uncomfortable to everyone else, the only thing that allowed her to be warm enough to sleep. And, if she was honest with herself, she still felt safer sleeping outside the village walls if she had to run. 

Although soon she'd probably have to find another warm place to sleep. The last few nights, Harritt had had a feminine visitor there in the light of the banked fires. It had started with exchanges of aid, a barmaid bringing drinks from the tavern in exchange for a repaired door. When those had been turned down by the crusty red headed man (or red bearded really) the tavern owner herself had brought food and drink for the men at the forge. Lingering longer than she likely should have to make sure it was actually eaten and drunk while Harritt complained of work lost. 

When Flissa had stuffed a piece of flaky roll into his complaining mouth to shut him up, he'd paused and eyed her challenge with a grimace and a slight loosening of his shoulders. Then he'd eaten the roll and not said anything more about the food and drink she brought on occasion over the next few days. 

Finally, days later he'd actually asked her about the tavern and she'd responded a bit saucily, making him grin in spite of himself. And then...wine and bread were shared in the light of the forge one night after the other smiths had left. And the next night. She'd felt like a mouse watching from the mousehole, silent and smiling at their stilted conversation. The third night, as Harritt had gruffly cleared the days soot from the bench, she'd plucked a rose from the strange little bramble that was growing at the edge of where she'd been sleeping (out of season but she didn't know much about roses so wasn't sure how odd that may be) and had slipped it onto the work table where the food had been set the night before.

When Flissa had arrived, she'd exclaimed in pleasure at the out of season rose, and had kissed Harritt. He'd frozen a moment, then returned the kiss. Tentatively at first, then with more ardor, until.. well, she'd stopped watching at that point, burying her head in her threadbare blanket and wishing she still had her borrowed copy of the Randy Dowager to distract her from the sounds in the smithy. 

Eventually she'd peeked, the passionate rutting against the smiths table bringing a burning to her lower body that she'd though dead since the betrayal that had left her alone and with child. Flashes of memory, a finely clad form laying next to her simply clad one, then naked, all the layers of cultural separation gone with the judgment of the fabric. And then as the two at the forge held the tender murmurs and glances afterward, she'd buried her face in the blanket again, this time to hide from herself. 

A sigh nearby broke her reverie and she raised her head and smiled at the pink faced old woman pausing to rub painfully gnarled hands next to her. The fact that the woman answered with a confused glare said something about how grim she'd been with her co-workers previously she supposed. 

But as she looked at the old woman, Garda, she could see a lifetime of precious wisdom in the tired eyes. Precious...the old woman was precious. They were all so precious to her now. It was odd, but she couldn't help but see the years of labor to raise children hidden in the twisting of her body, the sunshine that had kissed her leaving brown spots over her skin, the heartbreak of loss that filled her reddened eyes and the fear of age and an uncertain future in her glare. 

“Here, let me help a moment.” She moved over to Garda's tub but the old woman hissed at her. “You can't steal my work. I need that money.” That paused her, what to do? She needed to do something. 

She took Garda's withered hands in her own and held them. Just held them, but the womans face began to relax and after a moment she pulled her hands free to look at them in even more confusion. The swollen knuckles and twisted fingers had gone, leaving hands that were straight and strong. “The pain...it's gone!” Garda exclaimed in surprise. “You are precious, you know.” Angelica muttered, barely registering the surprised start and intent gaze of the new girl drudging at the next vat. She couldn't help it, even though it sounded like such an odd thing to say. “The Maker loves you.”

Her words were lost, again, as one of the younger laundresses burst through the door shouting. “The Herald is back! And they brought the mages! They're going to close the hole in the sky. We're saved!”

Her breath stopped as the rest of the ladies in the shed cheered. That meant the dwarf would be back. With such grand things to do, would he even remember to look for her? The love she'd been feeling faded as fear took it's place. 

In unspoken unison all the women dropped their laundry and massed towards the door. Following them so she wasn't alone and visible, Angelica ended up in what should probably be the last place she wanted to be. Lining the street watching the grand procession of warriors and mages pass by in their silver armor and fancy robes shining through the dirt of travel and battle. She'd missed the beginning of the procession, thank the Maker, with the Herald and his companions...and hopefully the dwarf. 

Not the dwarf, or the elf. 

There they were, bringing up the rear of the procession looking weary and troubled. She began to back away in panic and the movement turned their gaze unconsciously her direction. Maybe he'd forgotten. Please, Maker, bless that he'd forgotten her. His eyes met hers and widened in recognition. He hadn't forgotten. Weeks gone and he hadn't forgotten one shabby peasant woman, just her luck. 

He gestured her direction and she turned to run as strong hands grabbed her, snaking around her body to pin her arms and pull her away from the crowd. She stopped struggling instantly, looking up into the hooded face of what she thought must be a scout, nearly frozen in fear. “I haven't done anything wrong. Please, I haven't done anything wrong.” The hood obscured all of his expression from her but an implacable frown. 

“Well hello, Frosty. There's someone I'd like you to meet. Sweet girl really, if a bit terrifying.” She turned back to see the gentle smile of the dwarf as he made his way through the parting crowd towards her…what had he said his name was? Varry? Varl? No, Varric. 

“Please Varric, I haven't done anything wrong. Please, I'll leave Haven if you want me to. I could go somewhere else...Don't hurt me.” Her voice was nearly silent she was so frightened.

His face sobered and his eyes seemed sad, how odd. “I won't hurt you Frosty.” A slender woman, red hair peeping out from under her hood stepped from behind the hooded scout and turned a cold face towards her, speaking with an Orlesian accent.

“He won't hurt you. That's my job.”

***

Angelica had been left alone in the cell for hours now, but for the stern silver presence stationed outside the bars. She'd never been in a Chantry with cells below it before. Or perhaps there had been cells, and the new sister she'd been then had just not been on the list of people to notify about it. 

It was so cold, she felt she could barely move. She snorted wryly to herself as she huffed breath into stiff hands. How could they expect her to try and escape if she could barely move. They wouldn't even need bars to hold her, just a cold room.

The templar outside turned at the sound, then turned away again when he saw it was nothing. His indifference bothered her for some reason and she found herself needing to be seen as more a human being than just a prisoner…She was so afraid. It would be easier not to be afraid if she didn't feel so alone.

“Hello. Um, my name is Angelica, what is your name?” 

A small shift in the armored form showed that he had heard, but chose not to respond. 

“I can't get out of here, I'm not a mage so I can't cast any spells, in fact, I'm probably the least dangerous person you've ever met. You can at least tell me your name.”

Still no response. When she'd been in the Chantry, the templars had had no trouble speaking to the initiates. Why wouldn't this one speak now? Because he thought she was a mage? 

“I'm really cold. Is there any chance at all I could get another blanket?”

No response. It was like speaking to one of those statues in the village center at Edgehall. She sighed and lay back on the small pallet, pulling the one thin blanket over her shivering form, tenting it to try and let her breath warm her a little.

***  
Angelica started awake as the sound of several sets of boots echoed on the stone walls coming towards them. Her heart nearly stopped as she slowly sat up, pulling the blanket away from her face to reveal the group coming to a stop outside her cell. 

The red haired woman still looked cold and terrifying, and this time she was accompanied by several other people that Angelica didn't recognize. A thin elven man with a small case under his arm and a large woman with the build of a warrior carrying what looked like manacles.

“You can cooperate and make this easy on yourself, or you can choose to make this more difficult.” The redheaded woman began.

“I'll tell you everything I can. I don't want to hide anything.” Angelica's voice grew thin from fear as the templar turned and unlocked the cell door. The big woman stepped in and began attaching the metal restraints to her wrists. After she was restrained the thin elf moved in, crouched and took her hand with a smile. “My name is Zelen. I do very much hope that we do not become good friends.”

The redheaded woman grimaced and then stepped into the doorway. “I am needed at the breach so we'll just jump right in, shall we? What kind of magic did you use to heal the boy? To...bring a dead boy back to life?” 

Angelica shrank in on herself. They wouldn't believe her, she knew it already. “I didn't use any magic. I'm not a mage”

“Right. If you're not a mage, how did you bring someone back to life?”

“I don't know...I loved him.”

“You loved him? What does that mean exactly? Did you know him?” 

“No. I saw him and the girl crying for him and...I loved them. The Maker loved them. And it filled everything. And then he...came back to life.”

Angelica hadn't thought it was possible for the red head woman's face to become even more implacable, but it did. 

“The Maker loved them? How can you possibly know the will of the Maker?” She nodded to the thin man and he pulled a delicate knife from his case and muttered to her as he turned her hand and laid the blade against the most sensitive part of her palm. “Ir Abelas, da len.”

“Please! Don't...I don't know what you want to hear. I'm not a mage. I don't know what brought the boy back.” Angelica cringed as Zelen, lips pursed as if he were arranging roses or choosing a fine wine, cut precisely into the skin of her hand. 

Maker it hurt! She cried out and began to struggle, to scoot away from them all until she backed into the legs of the big woman who leaned down and grabbed her shoulders as the templar stepped forward and did...something. She had no idea what it was supposed to be but it made his drawn sword glow.

“The Maker loved them. He did! He...he loves you.” Why did she say that? The red heads face became a mask of rage and she gestured to the warrior woman who struck Angelica in the side of the head, leaving her sight starring and her ears ringing.

It was true though. Maker help her, it was true and nothing in her could take those words back. 

“He loves you. He showed you once. Why did you forget?” Why on earth was she still talking?! Words were replaced by a scream as the thin elven man grabbed her face and drew his blade just short of her eye. 

“Wait.” The red headed woman's voice sounded odd. Frozen almost like her lips didn't want to move right. Angelica looked up, carefully, to see her staring at the ground where the bedroll had been kicked aside.

Beneath it, growing out of a crack in the stone was a thin green stalk, and one perfect white rose. 

“We're done here today. We'll finish this tomorrow.”

And without explanation, she strode back down the corridor. 

“Perhaps wise you think on what you'll be telling Sister Leliana tomorrow.” Zelen spoke in a frighteningly quiet voice as he replaced the small knife into his kit. 

And then they were all gone but the templar who took up his post once again. 

***  
“In dread I looked up once...more and...saw the darkness warp...” Her mumbled prayer stuttered as another shudder wracked her body. 

Maker but she hurt, her face so swollen her lips distended on the side where the blow had landed. Her hand curled in on itself in a crust of dried blood. She'd finally slumped onto her side on the sleeping pallet, uncomfortable as it was while bound so. 

“And...crumble. For it was...a...fragile shroud over the light, which, turned it to ash” Her whispered prayer continued until her energy finally failed and she fell silent. 

“And the Maker, clad in the majesty of the sky, set foot to earth, and at His touch all warring ceased.”

She opened her eyes at the intrusion of the masculine voice to see the templar turned towards her. He nodded at the floor near her head.

“There are more now. Do you know how this happened?” 

Confused she craned her neck to look, in too much pain to be surprised at the small bank of roses growing out of the stone around her head. 

He waited in silence as she closed her eyes again, answering so softly that he had to lean into the bars to hear her.

“Perhaps the Maker loves me too...perhaps he loves you.” Silence, but the templar didn't turn away. 

She didn't want to talk anymore. 

But she had to. There was something that needed saying. “He knows your dilemma.”

The templar startled so hard that she could hear his armor clang against the bars. 

“And he loves you. Trust yourself.” 

A pause so long she finally forced her eyes open to see if he was still there. He was, and when he could see her looking at him he sank to his knees and removed his helm.

He was young, likely not long out of training. “What is your name?” She asked him softly. 

“Germaine, my lady.” 

She smiled gently at him, then cringed in pain when it stretched her swollen cheek. "I'm not a lady."...and then because something more seemed needed. “Tell me about yourself, Ser Germaine.”

***  
Leliana stopped at the bottom of the stairs, not comfortable being there, but not ready to turn back either. She should be up with the celebration. The breach closed, the inquisition looked to with respect. A night for joy, not a time to be standing filled with hope and trepidation at the words of an apostate.

Her fingers shook. She held them up in front of her in surprise. How long had it been since she’d allowed emotion to have such an effect on her. “I’m a fool.” she muttered to herself, curling her shaking fingers into fists. She closed her eyes for a moment to regain control but it didn’t work. She had to see for herself.

She KNEW it was a trick. A manipulation staged to gain the apostate sympathy. It had to be. The Maker didn’t speak to his children anymore, if he even existed.

Correction, her brain knew it, but her heart...her traitor heart hoped. 

She dropped her hands with a silent curse. She would stride in there, tear the false rose from the hands of the false prophetess and prove the lie. She would bury this doubt in surety and then...the woman would pay for speaking lies about the Maker. 

Confident again in her path she strode forward as the sound of quiet sobs echoed against the stone from before her. She stopped in the darkness out of old habit. The torchlight ahead illuminating a scene she had not ever expected. 

The templar left on guard kneeled against the outside of the cell, sobbing as he gripped the bars. Helm and sword discarded on the ground next to him. Inside the cell, the apostate was covered in what must have been every threadbare blanket from every cell down here. She appeared asleep, but it was hard to focus on that as Leliana took in the riot of roses growing around her head like a beautiful and unnatural halo, trailing up the bars and the walls as if to enclose her in a strange garden of white and green.

“Maker have mercy.” She swore lightly and stepped into the light. The templar scrambled to his feet.

“What?”

He gripped his hands in fists of determination and faced her squarely, cheeks glistening in the torchlight from his tears.

“She is the voice of the Maker. She knew...she knew my heart and told me of the Makers love. The roses won't stop growing. It's as if he sent them to comfort her.”

“It's a lie. It has to be. The Maker has abandoned his children.” Leliana moved closer in spite of herself, running a gentle finger over the petals of a rose that wound about one of the cold iron bars.

It was her rose. It smelled the same, it looked the same. It made her feel...things she hadn't felt in a very long time. 

“The Maker does love you. So very much.”

Leliana started at the muffled voice coming from beneath the heap of blankets. She sank down to crouch at the bars, to look the woman in the face as she opened her eyes.

“The Maker cares nothing for us.” Leliana's voice was much less sure than the statement she uttered.

“You have forgotten. So much pain you bear for the sake of others. A heart steeled to do what you believe the Maker requires. But the Maker doesn't require you to be harmed. He loves you. These are for you, not me.” The blanketed figure gestured to the roses.

Leliana couldn't bring herself to speak, to rebut. Her heart felt like it was in her throat and her breath just out of reach.

“You are precious in the Makers sight. Please believe that if you believe nothing else.”

Tears burned at the back of her eyes and her knees hit the stone. “I want to...but I can't. I have done too much. Terrible things in the name of the Divine.” Her voice thick with emotion the words were little more than a whisper.

“That doesn't matter.”

But why it didn't matter she didn't hear. At that moment voices sounded in panic at the top of the stairs and a shout carried down to them, accompanied by screams and the sounds of panic above.

“HAVEN IS ATTACKED!”

Leliana paused, then fumbled a key into the hand of the templar. “For the restraints.” She stood to leave then glanced down in a moment of confusion. She'd pulled one of the roses with her. 

She made to drop it, but...looking at the woman in the cell, she gripped it tight then turned and ran for the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to take this chapter all the way through the fall of Haven and the finding of the Herald of Andraste, but it was getting rather too long so I've separated them into 2 chapters. The cat is now out of the bag.


	5. Of Love and Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the flight from Haven, Angelica both receives and gives her greatest gifts.

 

 “Please, stay here where it's safe.” Angelica noted the almost pleading tone of Germaine's words and nodded silently in assent as he seated her at the top of the stairs from the dungeon. 

“I'll be back as soon as I know what's happening.” Germaine's earnest young face disappeared beneath his helm as he turned to leave. A few steps, however, and he turned to face her again, “I will protect you. I will protect the voice of the Maker.” And then he turned again and ran for the Chantry door, pushing his way through the mass of people streaming in.

Angelica found herself feeling distanced, floating almost in spite of the pain in her face and hand. Certainly not worried about whatever it was that had the rest of Haven in a panic. Disembodied voices swirled around her, not quite penetrating. “An army is coming!...Red Templars?...We have to flee!...The Herald will save us!”

Finally voices hushed to hear the muffled conversation at the Chantry door. A blond man who reminded her of a lion with his mane dark against the silver of his armor turned towards her, his gaze passing over her to land on one of the soldiers lining the walls near her. “Inquisition, follow Chancellor Roderick through the Chantry. MOVE!”

Then a thin boy in a strange hat nearly carrying a wounded Chantry brother passed her. Unlike the others rushing for the back he marked her presence. Turning his face as he passed so his pale eyes could stare at her in a way that made her freeze like a rabbit in the gaze of a predator until he was surrounded by refugees and out of sight.

“Up now, you heard the commander.” A soldier took her arm and gently pushed her towards the rest.

***

The next several hours went by in a frozen nightmare. The push of the terrified people around her keeping her moving forward even when her feet wanted to stop. The darkness pressed in with the cold, unrelenting.

The woman in front of her stumbled and fell, and Angelica watched numbly as several trod on her in their panic before she moved to help. Children crying in fear, hushed by equally frightened parents. The whispered commands of soldiers fighting to maintain order for the perilous journey. And above all these, the increasingly more distant sounds of fighting and explosions and the roar of some large beast.

They all heard when the avalanche buried the village behind them. But still she felt nothing.

And then a sound pierced the fog she walked in. Pierced her heart and the cold and everything. Somewhere in the dark behind her a baby began to cry.

It started small, little hiccups of unhappiness, and before long had grown to a true wail of infant misery. Angelica turned and began pushing against the press of humanity behind her. Nearly to the back of the straggling line she found the group of children. Eight children, the older ones holding the hands of the younger ones and the oldest carrying the crying baby. 

“Where is it's mother?” She asked, her heart in her throat in that moment. The boy holding the babe couldn't have been more than 12 himself but he answered with the authority of an adult. “It's mum didn't make it out of the Crossroads. None of ours did. Mother Giselle was caring for us. 

Almost without volition she reached for the baby, taking it from the relieved boy and staring down into the unhappy little face.

As it, (she?) wailed up at her, suddenly color began to bleed back into the world and sound began to make sense and she FELT with such intensity that nothing could deny it. “The Maker loves you.” She murmured and the baby quieted, reaching up to grab an errant strand of brown hair in a tiny fist. “And the Maker loves me too it seems.”

She made the rest of the climb to safety with the children, holding their hands, touching their heads, whispering love to their scared little hearts and holding her own new heart wrapped in a little blanket clutched to her chest.

***

“It's so cold, where will we sleep tonight sister Angelica?” Bredon's eight year old eyes peered up at her with such complete trust she couldn't bring herself to correct him again (I'm not a sister, I'm not with the Chantry anymore). Instead she smiled as the oldest boy, Arn she'd learned his name was, spoke to the younger boy. “We'll find Mother Giselle, I'm sure she has a place for us.” He looked to Angelica and at her nod he strode off, disappearing into the mass of refugees setting up the night’s camp, leaving silent and scarred eleven year old Leesa to take Bredon's hand.

“I could kill a bear! We'd take it's skin and then we'd be warm!” Ten year old Marric growled fiercely and tried to bite Marny, who promptly screamed, drawing the attention of a nearby soldier.

“Alright you two, no bears in camp!” Angelica scolded, gesturing at the watching soldier. “The soldiers would just have to chain it up and make it dance.” The four smaller children stopped their bored wrangling and looked at the soldier with big eyes.

“Would you make us dance?” Marny asked, her six year old hand plucking at the thin blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Sharing a quick glance with Angelica, the soldier nodded grimly. “Dancing is the only thing bears are good for. We'd have to put a great big collar on your neck and make you dance.”

“In front of everyone?” The fear in six year old Targan's face was clear.

“In front of every single person in camp. Nobody wants to miss the dancing bears.” The soldier took a step forward and the younger children fled back to cluster around Angelica, nearly pulling her over in their rush to the safety of her skirts.

“Careful you pack of wild animals! You'll wake up the baby and then I'll FEED you to the bears.” She pulled the sleeping infant closer to her with one arm, unable to repress the bubble of joy rising inside of her in spite of the cold and exhaustion of the exodus. 

Marric stepped forward into the path of the soldier. “But what about bearskin? My dad had one, it was BIG!” Marric stretched his arms wide to show just how big as the smaller children's eyes grew even larger. None of them paid attention to the rattle of plate armor behind them until the soldier straightened and saluted. “Ser.”

“I found you!” The relief in the familiar voice was palpable as Angelica turned, suddenly nervous, to face Ser Germaine. “I wasn't going to run.” The children's wide eyed stares moved from the soldier to the templar almost in unison.

“You are unharmed? Or, not more harmed I mean?” He stepped forward, removing his helm and revealing hair matted with dried blood. Before she could respond, he sank to his knee, bowing in the trampled snow. “Andraste be praised, the voice of the Maker is preserved.” 

Both the soldier and the children turned their stares to Angelica. “Uh...thank you? I...uh...you were looking for me?”

Germaine stood, earnest gaze finding her face. “There are wounded, some beyond what the healers can do. Would you deign to help them, my lady?”

“I..” She looked at the young faces turned to her and realized that no place in her heart could abandon them now. Ever. “I can’t. The children are alone and Mother Giselle isn’t here.”

As Ser Germaine’s face fell, the soldier spoke up. “I have four of my own, my lady. I could keep an eye on them until Mother Giselle can be found.” He smiled at the small faces. “And I promise I won’t make any of you dance.” 

“Then it’s decided.” Ser Germaine spoke quickly as Angelica opened her mouth to respond. Instead of the “No” she’d been intending to utter she addressed the soldier. “What is your name?”

“Jordan, my lady.”

She nodded and then addressed the children. “Ser Jordan is going to watch you for a little while. Arn is looking for Mother Giselle and a place for us to sleep tonight and I promise with all my heart, that I will be back. I won't leave you.”

She turned back to the soldier as he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and spoke jovially. “I'll ask the watch commander to replace me so I can get them some food and a fire.” She nodded, throat constricting as she turned from the now fearful little faces and allowed Ser Germaine to reverently lead her away.

It wasn't until they were well out of sight that she realized she still held the sleeping infant.

The refugees they initially passed were huddled under blankets in small groups around small fires. As they progressed towards the head of the procession the accommodations began to vary to small canvas lean-to's and then as they approached the main military portion of the camp, actual tents.

A large bonfire centered the tented portion of the camp and she paused to lean in to the heat a moment. Maker bless it, it was the first time she'd felt less than half frozen since... Germaine's gentle tug on her arm pulled her with him into an open faced tent that was clearly being used for the healers. Chantry sisters and several mages moved through the men and women huddled on the rough pallets surrounding a central table.

Angelica stopped just inside the open flap, resisting Germaine's pull. She wasn't a healer and had no idea what to do now they were here. She opened her mouth to say just that but snapped it shut as another familiar raspy voice sounded from behind her.

“Frosty. Why am I not surprised. Funny how we keep meeting like this.” She swung around and backed up quickly, running into Ser Germaine's armored form in her panic. “Varric!”

Germaine steadied her, looking over her shoulder in concern as the dwarf chuckled and shook his head. “I know, I know, you just couldn't stay away from my handsome mug. Although, I wouldn't complain if we found a better location for our trysts than healers tents. I'm not really into pain, unlike _some_ people I know.”

“Would you prefer Ser Tethras to leave, my lady?” Germaine asked, looking between the two.

“My lady?! Well, you've come up in the world, Frost...” 

She didn't hear the rest of Varric's comeback. Someone was sobbing in pain, she knew it was quietly, but to her ears it echoed as loud as a scream. The Maker called, and she had to answer.

“Wait, I know that look...” Varric bit his words off as she mindlessly handed him the bundle she was carrying and turned towards the pallets. “Frosty?”

Germaine gave Varric a glare that practically shouted words like 'respect' and 'honor', and turned to follow in Angelica's wake.

And then the baby woke up and began to cry. “HOLY SHIT, you handed me a baby?!”

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” Varric muttered as he helplessly trailed after that damn peasant woman. What was her name? Angelica? “Should be demon spawn,” he muttered then glanced down at the crying baby. “No offense, unless you're actually demon spawn.” The baby gave a particularly loud wail and he grimaced. “Demon Spawn, ah hell. Just my luck.”

A Chantry sister gave him a very pointed look from beside one of the wounded and he turned and headed for the door. “Loud and clear. If you need me I'll be out here trying to get the Seeker to cleanse the demon spawn...I mean baby.” And that image cheered him enough that he left humming in harmony to the baby's wails.

***

Angelica didn't know how much time had passed in the healer’s tent. Speaking, touching, giving hope, LOVING each of the wounded within. And they each left as they were healed to spread the word of the Maker’s voice.

Until there was only one left, the Chantry brother she'd seen in Haven. Once when she'd looked over at him she thought she'd seen the blue eyed boy, but when she'd blinked he'd been gone. Perhaps that's why she'd waited until last for this man who had saved them all.

As she knelt by his side, however, she understood why she hadn't been called to his side first. “He does not wish to return.” She wasn't sure who she was even speaking to until she looked up and the boy was suddenly there, staring unblinkingly at her. “He is with the Maker who loves him. He is happy.” The boy nodded, speaking in a soft voice. “You are like me. But not like me. What are you?”

Before she could answer (not that she had an answer for him) a commotion at the opening to the tent drew her attention.

“Get the Inquisitor in to the healers before it is too late!” The Lion man, clearly frantic, entered with a soldier and a dark haired woman carrying what looked to be a male body muffled in a cloak. She turned back but the boy was gone.

“Everyone out but Mother Giselle and the best healer,” ordered the dark haired woman, voice cracking in worry. Like a shadow behind them, the red haired woman the elven torturer had called Sister Leliana slipped into the tent.

Angelica stood, head lowered before their authority, to hurry out of the tent with the others and missed the glance that was shared between Germaine and Leliana. But as she passed, the red haired woman grabbed her arm, speaking quietly. “You stay.”

A tense moment of examination by the Mother and the healer followed and Angelica noted each of their faces. The Lion man (the Commander, she remembered) stoic but with fists clenching and unclenching in nerves. The dark haired woman, scarred face grim and oddly near tears. The soldier with all the hope clashing with all the fear a human being could feel. Germaine's lips moving in silent prayer. And the stillness that spoke of Leliana's tension.

“I'm sorry, so sorry. The Herald is dead. The exposure along with the broken bones from the avalanche were just too much. There is nothing that can be done.” The Chantry Mother spoke quietly, but the blow of her words made the others physically reel as Angelica watched in consternation.

No one could speak for a moment as their hope fell in pieces about them.

“So close! If only we'd been a few minutes faster.” The Lion Commander punched one of the tent poles, startling her while the dark haired woman crouched to the ground, head buried in her hands. “What do we do now? Who will close the rifts?” The woman's voice became even more husky in grief.

“Wait.” Germaine interrupted, flushing red as the angry and despairing gazes of the others focused on him. Angelica's heart sank, somehow she knew what the earnest young templar was going to say. 

“The Voice of the Maker is here. She can save the Herald if anyone can. The Makers Voice sent to save the Herald of Andraste!” Sure enough...she sighed as all the eyes followed his gesturing hand to her.

“The Makers Voice? What on earth do you mean, young man? This...woman is the Voice of the Maker?” The intensity of the dark haired woman's gaze as she spoke made Angelica want to run.

“He means, this woman has already raised a boy from the dead once before, Cassandra.” Angelica turned in surprise to stare at Leliana who continued to speak while watching her with an inscrutable expression. “She has performed other miracles as well. This tent was full of the wounded when last I was here, less than an hour ago.”

The eyes all rested in shock on the red headed spymaster for a moment before swiveling back to focus on Angelica.

“I don't believe the Maker would send a voice, but at this moment, I don't care if she's sent from the Black city itself if she can save the Herald.” The Lion Commander was clearly a man of action. As he finished speaking he strode forward, taking her arm (he could be forgiven for it being a bit roughly) and pulling her over to the muffled body on the table.

“I know it's a lot of pressure, but the fate of all Thedas may rely on what you do now. DON'T. FAIL.” The Commander spoke to her quietly, giving her shoulder a small squeeze of encouragement and then stepping back, leaving her with the body of the Herald of Andraste.

Not knowing what else to do, she pulled the cloak back from his face...and then stumbled back in shock.

_A finely clad form laying next to her simply clad one, then naked, all the layers of cultural separation gone with the judgment of the fabric. Whispered words of love and intimacy, stolen in the back garden of the Chantry. Speaking of the baby to be, anger, betrayal. Promises not kept._

“Maxwell,” she could barely choke out the name. She wanted to turn away but she couldn't. She could only stare at that cold, handsome, _dead_ face. She hated him, how could she possibly heal him? She hated what he'd done to her, what she'd given up for his sake. She hated….

No, she loved. She loved him and the lost insecurity that had brought him to her arms. The man who'd spoken of honor and fear of failure and his family’s expectations to her. The man who loved daisies and couldn't pass an animal without petting it. The man who burned with fire when he spoke of defending all that was good in the world.

She LOVED. She was filled with it. The whole world was filled with it, it was so large and encompassing.

She kissed his cold lips.

He breathed a great, gasping breath of air.

The silence in the tent was complete for the space of three of his shuddering breaths and then all of the occupants rushed towards the man gasping on the table and Angelica was pushed aside. The love faded and all that was left was sorrow.

As they exclaimed in relief, none of them noticed her slip from the tent.

 

_The Darkness moved, writhing in pain, awakened by the approach of the largest of her children. “Did you bring the essence of Her?”_

_The voiceless brute nodded and placed the tiny broken body among her tentacles. The Darkness stilled a moment before lunging to grasp the corpse. “The key,” she rasped and then devoured the decaying flesh in rending abandon._

_A short time later she shuddered, then screamed as the rotting flesh hit her tainted bloodstream. “The key! Follow the key to the light!”_

_The brutes mind reeled with the intensity of the mothers sending and he staggered. He could feel the presence of the light in the world now. He would find it for them all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay...I know I said this would go through Skyhold but I'm finding myself drawn in to the time spent during the flight from Haven to Skyhold. In the game it's a brief montage of scenes bracketing Mother Giselle's song and I find myself pondering what the rest of the people felt then. Not just the advisors and the Inquisitor. 
> 
> How do the companions handle it? How do the regular people and the soldiers handle it? These questions mean we've one more chapter after this one before we get to Skyhold.


	6. Varric has a Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varric is unsuccessful in keeping the baby a secret and Leliana makes a decision.

Varric stepped out of the tent with the intention of keeping an eye on things from outside. She couldn't give him the slip this time. Frosty wouldn't leave without her baby he was pretty sure, and he wasn't certain he was comfortable watching her do...whatever magic it was that she did. Too close to something requiring faith if that besotted templar was any indication, or perhaps the darker intimation of the mind control of blood magic.

She'd been so afraid of him. Varric wasn't sure how he felt about that besides uncomfortable. Being charming, being the nice guy to get past a persons guard, to get answers, to get concessions had been his game for Maker knew how long. When did he start believing his own front?

And when would this baby stop crying?

He hefted it experimentally and the wails quieted for a moment. But only a moment before they broke out again with even more vehemence. “Demon spawn,” he muttered before he turned to the crowd of soldiers and support personnel surrounding the healers tent. “There's a days wages in it for any of you who know how to get this baby to stop crying.”

Silence.

“Andraste's flaming knickers, the entire Inquisition is too honest to take a bribe?” More silence.

“Great. Fine. How hard could it be to take care of a baby?” He turned away with a sniff, throwing a parting comment over his shoulder. “Just be aware, you're all going into my next book as the idiot masses with bad teeth and a death wish.”

***

A half hour later, the baby was still wailing although the cries were getting weaker, and Varric was getting frantic.

He'd nearly pulled out his hair with his free hand. He'd tried everything he could think of. Rocking, feeding (apparently babies don't like hard tac), drinking (somehow he'd thought that a drunk baby would be a happy baby… but now he had ale down his front along with baby spit), and after a furtive look around to make sure nobody was paying attention, he'd even sung to it. But nothing had worked!

“Don't die on me kid, I don't think I could stand the bad reviews.” His eyes were burning and he was pretty sure he was now deaf in one ear. He'd never have thought himself longing for the presence of an apostate...but if she didn't come out of that tent soon, he was taking the baby back in there, blood magic or not. “I don't see how this could get any worse.” He sighed.

“I take it you dwarf chappies don't have babies? What? They come right out of the stone? Tell me they come right out of the stone and that's why your heads are so hard!” The peal of feminine laughter made him close his eyes. “It got worse,” he muttered then turned to glare up at the tall elven girl who was the speaker.

“Hello Sera. You going to help, or just mock me?” His response was perhaps more terse than usual.

“How about both at the same time, cause I'm good like that. You really don't know anythin' about babies. Mr. never stops talking, looks like crying baby got you to stop talking.”

The baby let out another loud wail and Varric turned on the desperation charm. Putting on his best near to tears expression he held the bundle out to her in supplication. “I just can't bare the thought of it dying. Please Sera, help me.” He almost managed a tear...it was an epic performance. And a partially successful one as Sera's nose wrinkled and she snorted.

“Okay, laying it on a bit thick what. Babies need milk. I bet it's hungry as somethin' after all that fleeing.”

He held the bundle out again and she backed up, hands in the air. “Nuh huh. Not holding no baby. I'll find the milk, but you have to feed it.” He smiled winsomely at her as he conceded. “It's a deal. Please, just hurry...before I start bawling too.”

With a quick laugh the elven girl turned and dashed off into the camp shouting, “Hey everyone, Varric's got a baby! Funniest thing ever!”

“Great...now I'm a Maker be damned circus.” Varric sighed and pulled the baby closer his chest to rock it...and it promptly reached out with a little hand and grabbed. “OW! What the Makers hell?! That's my chest hair! Aren't you too young for that sort of thing?”

“They are never too young, my dear dwarf. The desire to be lost in your chest hair is a genetic imperative that must be bred into the best of humanity.” The smooth drawl made Varric grit his teeth and glare up at the familiar speaker.

The human man was muscular and wearing clothing completely unsuited to the climate. He also had a faint sneer and an epic mustache. He'd be a good villain in a story, Varric thought fleetingly as he replied.“I'm not your dear anything and if you're going to mock, Dorian, at least do something useful.”

“As to something useful, I already have by distracting you.” He gestured. “You'll note the baby has stopped crying. Your chest hair must be positively epic.”

“Stopped?” He looked down and sure enough, the little thing had tangled it's hands in his chest hair and was trying to get it into it's mouth.

“Those are really tiny hands.” He found himself stating inanely. But Dorian bent over him and cooed. “Oh they are completely precious.”

“Dorian, you're cooing.” The Tevinter"s smile belied his arrogant words. “Tevinter magisters don't coo. We stomp and threaten and gloat, but never coo.” He straightened. “Although technically, I'm not a magister.”

“Good to know.” Varric had been studying the mage through the conversation. TheTevinter man had chosen to stay with them for Maker knew what reason. Definitely bore some looking into. He'd get his network on background checks soon as they were anywhere, rather than this...nowhere.

“So, is the baby...yours?” Dorian looked down at him with one elegantly raised brow that spoke a world of innuendo. “No, this is not my baby.” Varric stated flatly, although the words didn't come out as harsh as he'd intended. It was looking up at him with big blue eyes. He'd always been a sucker for blue eyes.

“So...you stole a baby? Isn't that illegal in Ferelden? I mean, in Tevinter it's almost a sport, but here in the south I thought things were different?”

Varric snorted. “No, I didn't steal the baby. Maker's hairy balls, why would I want a baby?”

“Well, there are several rituals to restore chest hair that involve a baby's...”

What it would involve was lost when a rush of gold satin and enthusiasm darted into the firelight squealing in a soft Antivan accent. “Varric! You have a baby! Oh it's so precious!”

He closed his eyes and sighed again. “If everyone didn't know about the baby before, they will now. Hello Josephine.” He turned to find her standing there, eyes glowing and hands holding a strange balloon looking thing that appeared full of milk. “What on earth is that?”

“It's milk.” She answered, holding up the makeshift nurser. “Sera told me your baby was hungry. I had no idea you were a father!”

He laughed. “Ruffles, don't get your hopes too high. This isn't my baby. I'm just...watching it for someone.”

Her face fell just a little but she held out her arms. “I used to help with my siblings when they were small. I can feed…is it a boy or a girl?” Varric surrendered the bundle (after a moment of untangling it from his chest hair) with a bit of hesitation. The little thing had been starting to feel kind of right in his arms. Weird.

His answer was studied in it's neutrality. “I don't know, there wasn't time to ask and I, uh, didn't check.” Josephine's eyes widened and she pulled the blanket back to peek as the baby began to fuss again. “Well we can't have that.” She stated in a tone that accepted no argument.

“What's this I hear about a baby?” Blackwall's gruff voice broke over the group. “It's a girl!” Josephine exclaimed at the same time. “A girl? Well that explains the chest hair fetish.” Dorian piped in.

“Welcome to the party.” Varric muttered, giving up any thought that he was going to get out of this without everyone knowing.

***

Who knew babies could be so much fun, Varric pondered to himself as he rocked her Maker only knew how much later. Now that she’d been fed and changed it was like a different baby. Although the amount of favor he owed Krem for stepping in and changing her would likely hang over his head until the worst possible moment.

Dorian had somehow drummed up some pretty cloth to replace the ragged blanket she’d been wrapped in and Josephine had taught them all some rather lovely Antivan lullabies. Sera had finally reappeared with a likely stolen cask of ale and a couple of mugs and Blackwall had spent the time with a knife and a piece of wood carving something while they all imbibed and passed around the gurgling bundle with a rather unhealthy amount of self congratulation.

He doubted the mother would recognize her when she finally emerged from the healer’s tent.

Speaking of the healer’s tent, the trickle of healed patients had finally slowed nearly to a stop. So many had left that Varric was pretty certain there couldn’t be many injured remaining. That was nice, but also disturbing.

“All done. There you go little one.” The big man’s gruff voice was oddly tender as Blackwall presented what he’d been carving. It made a rattly noise as he shook it, tiny enough for a baby’s hand.

This time when Varric spoke he could have truly been accused of cooing himself. “Look there, Princess, your first weapon. You’re official Inquisition now.” He grinned as the tiny hand began waving the rattle and gurgling at the noise it made. “Looks like we have a mace wielder here.”

“Oh piss no. She’s gonna be a sharpshooter and put all those cock wads in their place.” Sera grinned when Josephine cringed at her words. Varric interrupted. “Don’t listen to them, Princess, we all know you’re going to be a s…”

Varric's rebuttal was interrupted by a commotion at the edge of the camp. He stood, unconsciously pulling the tiny form closer to his chest as if to defend it from whatever was coming.

And coming it was. Moments later Cullen, Cassandra and a soldier he didn’t recognize came plowing through the crowd around the fire turning frantically towards the healer’s tent.

“Out of the way! The Herald is injured!” Cullen’s voice was firm, commanding and frightened all at the same time which had Varric moving to follow them into the tent.

A slim hand stopped him and he looked up into Leliana’s face. Her face was like a carved block of ice with eyes of such intensity that he found himself moving away with a twinge of fear.

They’d found the Herald. That was good news, wasn’t it?

The swift exodus of most of the healers from the tent was yet another sign of “This isn’t as good as one would hope”. He watched, but oddly, the apostate wasn’t one of them.

“Now, why would Leliana not eject, arrest or kill an apostate near the Herald right now?” He mused to himself. “That’s a very good question.” Blackwall muttered, having followed the others as he had.

Josephine stood and headed towards the tent as Varric moved to head her off. “Somethings not good there, Ruffles. I think perhaps you should wait out here.” She cast a nervous look at the open doorway as Leliana appeared from inside to close it, shaking her head in warning at the ambassador. “It appears you’re right.” Josephine sounded nervous. “I’m sure Leliana has a reason, but…” Without finishing her thought she turned back and sat by the fire. The patience of a waiting predator in her eyes.

The next little while passed in silence. Even Sera was quiet, eyes worried.

Finally a muffled exclamation, “Maker be praised!” in what was likely Cullen’s voice had them all breathe a sigh of relief.

And then the apostate walked out of the tent. The amount of sorrow in her face made Varric cringe just a bit, but he stepped forward. “Hey Frosty, you okay?”

She looked at him confused for a moment before recognition set in and she began to back away.

“You want to run off and leave your baby?” He held the bundle just out of reach so that she had to actually step toward him to get it. Which she did, holding out her arms imploringly. He was surprised a little at the reluctance he felt handing the infant over. But he did with a silent promise that he'd make sure she was taken care of.

“I...how did you get the baby?” She muttered, clearly confused. “You handed her to me when you got all mystic and shit in there.” He smiled up at her as unthreateningly as he could as he answered.

Dorian's smooth voice interrupted. “And this is the lovely mother? How enchanting. You MUST introduce me, master dwarf.” At her confused expression Varric grinned and gestured at the mage. “Dorian Pavus, meet...uh...Angelica. Frosty, meet our very own Tevinter non-magister, Dorian.”

Her confusion turned to a blush as Dorian took her unresponsive hand and bent over it for a polite brush of the lips before he was equally politely brushed aside by the ambassador.

“Is the Herald alright? Please tell me the Herald is alright?” Josephine’s voice was breathless with worry. Angelica nodded, expression odd. “Yes, he is alive.” A sigh of relief from everyone and then she was drawn into the group and a mug of ale pressed into her free hand as Josephine dashed into the tent. Varric mused on the choice of words. Alive...as in not dead. There was a story there, he was sure of it.

“I need to go to the other children.” Frosty was trying to extricate herself but Varric gave Sera and Blackwall a shake of the head and they blocked her exit as he took her arm. “We’ll have them brought here. I think it’s better for you all here where it’s warmer and...safer.”

And then the templar came out of the tent in a frantic dash, eyes searching in a panic until they landed on the apostate mother.

All of them watched in surprise as he ran to her and dropped to his knees speaking fervently. “I will serve you all the days of my life, this I swear.”

Their jaws dropped open further as he continued, looking up at her with worship in his face, “You have brought the Herald back from death through the power of the Maker. You are truly his voice.”

With a shocked silence they all took in the scene and what it could mean. Leliana slowly exited the tent taking the sight in a moment before approaching.

And kneeling before the woman as well.

  
“I...didn’t see THAT coming.” Varric muttered.

***

_The largest of the Mother’s children gestured and the horde that followed him spread to search the buried village. The light had been here, but was no longer._

_They were close, but he couldn’t see the path. In frustration he gutted the tainted one next to him and growled until the others ran from his presence in fear._

_They had the key, they would find her. They would never stop until they found the light._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of humor to lighten a dark time. Anyone here who has been a parent knows the fight between wanting to pitch the shrieking darling out the window and being willing to destroy nations to keep it safe.  
> Next stop, Skyhold.
> 
> Also, I've fixed some of it to make it a bit more clear who is speaking when. Thank you for the feedback! I don't have many readers yet, but those of you who are sticking it out, I'm very grateful. You're who this is for.


	7. The Cruelty of Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Chantry speaks and the Inquisitor finally meets the Herald.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this chapter a bit early because I fly out tomorrow to work on post production on two films I directed last year. I'm going to still try to post next week, but it will depend on how crazy my schedule is.

 

“Is there anything else?” Josephine glanced up from the metal markers that littered what they had grimly named the war table.

Leliana noted how tired she looked, how tired they all looked. Their new home, Skyhold, was wonderful; but the amount of repairs needed, along with the thin air at this altitude, meant they all were feeling more drained than usual. She let her eyes wander across each of their faces while her mind pieced and puzzled together the story those faces told her.

“Not that I can see. As usual, you three rather overwhelm me with your attention to all the details I need to take care of.” Though as tired as the rest, the twinkle in Maxwell's eyes took any sting from his words.

“Oh, I'm certain at least the ladies can find more details if you really want them.” Cullen's voice was more strained than it should be, even with the current air of exhaustion they shared. Her eyes stopped their wandering to focus on his face alone.

The former Knight-Commander looked pale, eyes fighting to focus. Was he sweating? The air was too cold and Cullen too disciplined to have come to the meeting under the influence of alcohol. A deeper probing was interrupted by the soft voice of Mother Giselle.

“May I speak with you all for a moment?” Mother Giselle had cracked the door but not entered.

Leliana sighed. She'd have to corner Cullen in his office and find out what was going on.

“Of course, Revered Mother. You are always welcome here.” Maxwell seemed to have taken well to the new title of Inquisitor, and the leadership it represented, Leliana noted as he issued the invitation to the Chantry icon.

“Are the repair personnel creating any issues for you, Mother?” Josephine asked. Somehow, her demeanor retained it's politeness even though Cullen (and to be honest Leliana herself) were struggling to wipe the irritation at the interruption from their faces.

“No, no, everyone is perfectly respectful. There is an issue that has come to my attention, however.” The Revered Mother sighed and looked at each of them in turn, her eyes finally resting and staying on the Inquisitor. Maxwell squirmed under her gaze as she paused.

Her gaze remained on him when she finally continued. “We agreed that it would be wise to keep the events that occurred during the flight from Haven quiet for now. It appears someone has not done so. I have just received a rather strongly worded letter from Val Royeaux asking about the purported miracles and using words like 'blasphemy' and 'heresy'.”

Leliana's fist clenched beneath the table as the words broke from her. “There were no purported miracles. There were miracles.”

Maxwell's startled expression brought her back to herself. They hadn't told him, feeling he had enough to deal with as the new Inquisitor and the less people who knew, the less chance of it getting out. How would he take the news of his own death? She couldn't bring herself to deny the Maker's hand... but perhaps she could turn this to their benefit

Leliana paused to walk partway around the table to Maxwell's side before she spoke again. “The Maker sent a miracle to save the Herald of his beloved. There is no blasphemy in that. It follows Chantry teaching and could bring great hope to a world filled with fear and chaos right now. It also sets the Inquisition more fully in place as the hand of Andraste and the Maker.”

Mother Giselle's response was calm. “I'm certain that is what they fear most. And when the Grand Clerics are afraid, people die. He has already died once, I would not like to see it happen again.”

“WAIT! What do you mean I died? And what do you mean by miracles?” Maxwell's voice took on his tone of command, but Leliana could hear the fear beneath it and laid a hand on his arm.

Cullen answered, his authoritative calm diffusing the tension. “You didn't survive the snowstorm. You had collapsed by the time we'd found you and would not revive. Mother Giselle and the attending healer pronounced you dead.” His calm faltered a brief moment and Leliana turned her gaze to him again. Did he believe as she did? “But there was a woman there, healing the sick and injured...one proclaimed by some...” He caught Leliana's gaze and looked back at her steadily, his expression unreadable as he regained his aplomb. “...by some to be the Voice of the Maker who had already raised one person fully from the dead.”

“And she brought me back, claiming it was the Maker’s will?” Maxwell frowned as he pondered the implications.

“She did not claim it was the Maker’s will.” Leliana spoke up. “She...uh...kissed you and you began breathing again. It is others of us who name her the voice of the Maker because she speaks his love to us.” The passion in her voice made Maxwell quirk an eyebrow at her, studying her quickly schooled expression.

“Kissed me? Well, I hope she's pretty then. And I suppose I should meet this woman. I assume she is still here?” Maxwell nodded to Leliana for verification but Mother Giselle spoke before she could answer.

“She has also been accused of being an apostate using an unfamiliar kind of magic. I don't believe it would be wise to risk the Inquisitor's safety with a meeting. Not until she has been proven to be of no threat.”

Maxwell paused a moment, still watching Leliana. Finally he nodded as if coming to a decision and turned to address the others. “I think if her presence is disturbing to the Chantry, then wisdom indicates that I should meet her, immediately. Cullen will accompany in his capacity as a templar as well as commander in case she should try any untoward magic.”

Cullen nodded, “As you wish.”

At Mother Giselle's frown Maxwell turned to address her specifically. “We have several powerful mages that I trust as part of my inner circle. Josephine, have them begin testing this woman immediately after my visit to assess what kind of magic, if any, she employs.”

Josephine sighed but responded. “I will have word sent immediately, Inquisitor.”

“Leliana, you will accompany me to this meeting as well; and on the way, I want you to tell me everything you know about this woman and why you didn't tell me before now.”

He regarded her steadily and she nodded, hoping he wouldn't detect her small lie. “I will tell you everything that I know, Inquisitor.” Except the roses, she thought to herself. Those had been just for her.

***

“I am king of this land, and I shall name this land...ARNTOPIA! And I shall rule it with blood and f- OOF!” Arn, who had been standing with a noble jut to his chin and a broom for his standard, now stood as a hero beset by the hordes of the damned atop the pile of gathered bricks meant for shoring up the wall of their new quarters. Marny and Merric had lunged at him and hung off each arm while Bredon and Targan pushed steadily against his legs trying to topple him into the grass.

Slowly the hero began to fall as Angelica and Bursa laughed helplessly from the other side of the grassy area outside the rough quarters they had been assigned.

Angelica noticed even the silent Leesa smiled a little to herself as she wove together pieces of straw and herbs into a small mat for the cold stone of the floors. The sweetly scented herbs had been a gift from Dorian when he'd come yesterday to start chess lessons with the older children. Leesa had beaten Arn, and had done well enough on her first lesson to startle an exclamation of praise from the Tevinter man. Even the badly scarred, silent ghost of a girl had nearly glowed in pride; and Dorian had watched her with sad eyes when he thought no one was looking. When he'd left, he had promised to return when he could to continue the lessons. Tevinter or not, mage or not, Angelica had decided in that moment that she liked the man and would allow him around these children she'd assumed the care of.

Germaine, however, was another matter. His help had truly been a blessing on the hard march to Skyhold, but since their arrival his constant worship was making her desperately uncomfortable. She was just a low blood ex-Chantry sister drummed out for having a child out of wedlock, not some shining beacon of the Maker. She'd sent him back to the templars with the solemn promise that she would call for him if she needed anything. He'd only gone when she had made the case for their safety being assured in Skyhold and his sworn responsibilities to the Chantry.

A screech drew her attention back to the dog pile that was happening on the now-fallen Arn. “I think you've toppled the despot. Time to get back to your chores, you wild beasts,” she called.

“But Angelica, we're the rulers now.” Merric grabbed the broom and placed his foot on the stomach of his fallen enemy. “I claim this land in the name of MERR- AH!” And the melee began anew as the other children turned their attention to toppling Merric.

Shaking her head fondly, she turned back at the first cry of the waking infant to see Varric standing beside the rough cradle of blankets. He'd told her that he was just making sure everyone was safe and that she had nothing to fear from him anymore, truly. But she couldn't help but stiffen at his presence. From the tight smile he gave her, it was clear he'd noticed.

Taking a breath and forcing herself to relax, she moved to pick up the fussing baby and greet their guest. “Hello Varric.” There was silence for a moment as she didn't expand on the greeting, and he waited to see if she would say more.

Finally he sighed and spoke. “I just wanted to check on you and Princess… and the rest of the kids. Make sure you all had what you needed.”

Bursa, the next youngest, grabbed Varric’s hand and smiled up at him with chubby cheeks. “I need a dolly. I lost mine when mama died.” He looked uncomfortable a moment, then knelt to her level and spoke sincerely. “Well then, I think I can take care of that, Rosebud. Can you give me a day or two?” Bursa nodded solemnly then ran off to tell the other children loudly that she was getting a dolly.

“You know, you'll have to bring one for each of the girls to avoid bloodshed.” Angelica smiled wryly at him as she spoke.

Varric laughed then moved to sit next to her, and she caught him surreptitiously glancing at the baby in her arms while he spoke. “The last thing I need is a pack of wild animals masquerading as children tearing me limb from limb. I think, in the interest of self preservation, I'll take your advice.”

“Would you like to hold the baby?” she asked him tentatively, unsure if that was wise. But, she couldn't run from here, and wouldn't leave these lost children even if she could, so it was time to make the best of it.

“Yes.” He spoke a bit too quickly, but tempered that with a grin and added, “If you don't mind.”

He held out his arms and she deposited the now wriggling infant into them. “Hello Princess. Miss your old drinking buddy?”

“Drinking buddy?!” At Angelica's shocked voice he laughed and began the story of how he and the Princess had met that night on the mountain. Soon Angelica was laughing and relaxed and as the other children slowly moved to sit and enjoy the storyteller’s skill, the afternoon passed.

Much later as he kissed the baby's tiny head and handed her back, Angelica realized that her fear was gone. Perhaps that wasn't wise, she thought to herself, given that he'd turned her in for what would likely have been a fair bit of torture. But something about his dry humor and kindness broke through her guard.

“You're welcome here, Varric.” She smiled up at him from where she sat, now holding the baby. “If you should want to visit again.”

“I'd like that. Thank you, Frosty.” He smiled down at her then turned to leave.

And that's when the Inquisitor arrived. Along with Leliana, Cullen, two templars and several guards. All of them but Leliana looking nervous.

***

“Looks like I might stay a bit longer,” Varric muttered to Angelica as the guards circled the small patch of grass, effectively blocking any attempt at escape and shooing the children away from the area. Somehow this didn’t look like a good thing to him.

“I've come to say thank you to the woman who s...” The Inquisitor froze, staring at Angelica.

Well shit, Varric mused. The man he had nicknamed “The General” and that was on target to become the most powerful person in all Thedas was staring at a peasant woman like he was seeing the ghost of his long dead mother.

No, scratch that. Not his mother, the way the General was staring definitely had nothing platonic to it. And Frosty was staring right back at him much the same way. Things were becoming interesting and nobody had even spoken yet.

Well, at least he could fix _that_. “Inquisitor, I'd like to introduce you to-” Varric began.

“Angelica.” Maxwell spoke over him, voice quiet.

“You two know each other?” Nightingale sounded surprised. Huh. She hadn't known either. Varric wasn't sure if he felt relieved or worried.

“Inquisitor.” Angelica responded quietly, pulling the infant defensively closer. Maxwell looked as though she had struck him.

They both ignored Leliana's question. Finally The General turned to Cullen and Leliana and asked in a fierce whisper. “Is this the woman who..?”

At Cullen's stiff nod, he returned to staring at Angelica and they both fell back into an awkward silence.

Finally he gestured to the baby. “Is that…?”

Angelica's voice hardened. “That is none of your concern any longer.”

“What is her name? I deserve at least that much.” The General’s voice had softened.

“Salvisa.” Her voice hadn't.

Varric nearly whistled in surprise. Maker be damned, Frosty just told a lie, and Varric knew lies. But was the lie the baby’s name, or something else?

Maxwell took a step towards her, hand outstretched as if to touch the baby and Angelica stood abruptly and took a step back. As if her movement triggered an alarm, the guards drew their swords and the templars stiffened, ready to take action if she breathed so much as a hint of magic.

Varric found himself moving quickly to take up a defensive stance between her and the guards. He knew this feeling, this need to care for and defend. It hadn't done him any favors in the past, and likely wouldn't now… but he couldn't help himself when he saw the terror in her eyes. Please don’t be another Anders, he prayed silently.

“Stop it. All of you. This woman saved the Inquisitor. She does not deserve to be threatened like this.” Leliana's voice rang out like steel on stone. Her expression spoke of silent death in dark places and the guards swords wavered. She strode to stand next to Angelica who looked very much like she wanted to run from the spymaster as well.

“Well Nightingale, I hope I stay on your good side.” Varric muttered. “Cause you're kind of terrifying when you're angry.”

“Stand down.” Cullen ordered, nodding to the guards. But not the templars, Varric noticed, finally thinking to wonder why he’d brought templars when Curly was an ex-templar himself.

Maxwell stepped back and sighed, hunching in what to Varric appeared to be pain.

A moment later he straightened and looked Angelica in the eyes, expression cold and commanding.

“I am grateful for what you've done for me and for the Inquisition. In gratitude, I will set aside apartments for you and...” he gestured imperiously to the silent children cowering at the edge of the circle, “...those under your care in the main keep, as well as a monetary reward to be delivered later today. However, there have been accusations that you are an apostate mage...” his voice broke ever so slightly, “and in order to lay those accusations to rest, I am temporarily remanding you to the custody of Solas, Vivienne de Fer, and Dorian Pavus.”

Maxwell's eyes dropped under the weight of the fear in hers. Varric put a consoling hand on her back and could feel her trembling.

The Inquisitor continued in a softer voice. “They will assess your magic, and if- ... _when_ they determine you are not a threat to the Inquisition, you will be released.” He looked up at her again, eyes pleading. “You'll be safe there. I won't let them harm you. We just need to know how you- ...to protect you from those who are afraid of what you've done.”

“But, I've only ever healed people. I'm not a mage. You know I'm not a mage.” Her voice betrayed the trembling in her body.

“Do I?” The words were little more than a whisper as he turned away from her. Crafty bastard, Varric thought. The General wasn’t going to let them see his reaction to what he was going to do next.

He couldn’t see the General’s face, but he could read the body language. He was holding himself as though readying for a blow as he spoke again.

“Leliana, make arrangements for the care of the children until she is released, or-.” He stopped and took a breath. “Varric, if you would bring the infant.” It wasn’t a question.

“NO! Please don't take her! She's not YOURS! She's not yours to take! She's all I have left!” Angelica's agonized cries nearly broke Varric's heart as he turned to take the child from her. “It will be okay, Frosty. I swear it will be okay. I won't allow any harm to come to her. They're good people; they won't hurt you.” Varric wasn't sure she could even hear him over her frantic pleading, or if what he was saying was even true. When he finally managed to get the baby from her arms, she collapsed in sobs on the ground and he stepped away feeling worse than he had in a very long time. A blow indeed, but he didn’t think it was the General who’d been the one to take the hit.

Maxwell still didn't turn to look at them. “Cullen...” he muttered and then strode off.

“If you'd come with me, my lady.” Cullen moved to lift Angelica from the ground, wrapping an oddly gentle arm around her as he lead her sobbing form away.

“Well shit. Shit shit shit shit.” Varric muttered as he headed after the Inquisitor, the little Princess clutched to his chest.

***

_The largest of the Mother’s children stood looking at the walls as they lit up with the fires of the humans. This place was hard and protected and he could feel her, the light on the other side of those high stone walls._

_So close and yet they couldn't reach her. Couldn't touch the light and bring it to the Mother. He growled with the Mother's frustration._

_The horde behind him shifted and muttered. They wanted blood. They wanted to feed. They wanted to take. But they would wait. Wait until the light finally left the safety of the walls._

  
_And then..._


	8. Finding Tranquility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Answers.  
> Maxwell's take on things and if Angelica is actually a mage.
> 
> Also, I got to use swooped in a sentence. I'm pretty stoked.

Maxwell strode into his quarters and out to the balcony. Maker but he needed some air. He didn't know how to feel right now, he didn't know how to make things right. He didn't... 

What he _did_ know was that he wanted to punch something and allow the external pain to silence the internal one. The balcony was stone and the blow hurt, and though it should have, it didn't distract him from the thoughts circling through his mind.

She'd looked so changed. So weary and scarred and threadbare. He understood her anger, but he didn't understand her desperation and fear or what had happened to cause them. Her eyes, what had once been the most beautiful part of her, had looked so dead when she'd seen him.

She was so thin.

“Well General, that wasn't...I don't even know what to say that was.” Varric's angry voice was an indictment of his own guilt. He didn't have to turn around. A coward's way, perhaps, but Varric was sharp. He would see the self he didn't like to think he was. The self he'd thought had died at the conclave with the peace of the world. The self she saw when she looked at him. 

The baby gurgled and the darkening spiral of his thoughts screeched to a halt. 

He turned, and there was Varric glaring at him from the center of the large room. The baby wiggled and one little fist escaped the blanket that hid her from him. 

He was seldom hesitant about anything in his life. If he wanted something he pursued it. If he saw what he perceived a wrong, he took action. If something needed to be done he did it. But this...he didn't know how to feel about this.

He could see that Varric was waiting for him to speak. Waiting for an explanation, an order, an excuse, something. Instead he hesitantly approached the two, licking nervous lips and fighting to hide the tremble in his hands as he gently pulled the blanket back to see his daughter's tiny face. 

He was unprepared for the rush of emotion that struck him as he looked into those bright little eyes. He was her father. Father, a word that had meant little to him until that moment. He was her father and he would fight to his last breath, raze armies, conquer nations and utterly destroy any who would harm her. The sheer FORCE of that protective instinct was nearly overwhelming. In the intensity of the moment he hadn't realized he'd practically snatched her from his friend. 

“I take it she's yours?” Varric's voice broke through and he looked up to find the dwarf staring at him with a quirked eyebrow and a grim smile. Maxwell nodded. He wasn't certain he trusted his voice right then as he looked back to marvel at the small person cooing in his arms. 

“I think you owe me an explanation. I think you really owe her one.” Varric didn't bother to identify which 'her' he was speaking of, but Maxwell nodded again. With the number of witnesses to his reaction on meeting Angelica, word would spread. Better the truth now so damage control could happen quickly. 

Damage control...even in this moment of emotion his mind turned to the logical next steps, the tactics of the situation. Funny, he pondered, how the same character traits that made him a good leader he'd allowed to make him not a good man. He wasn't big on introspection but he tucked that thought and it's implications away to peruse later. He would be revisiting it.

“Salvisa. That's Tevinter for 'saving' if I remember my studies. I wonder why she chose that name?” Maxwell fell silent for a long number of moments while Varric watched him, schooling his expression to a cool neutral to ease the telling. He was deflecting, that was unworthy. Much better to just pull the knife out swiftly than ease it out and prolong the pain. 

He took a deep breath and continued. “We met at the Chantry in Edgehall. My father had sent me to negotiate with the templars there. She was one of the sisters.” Maxwell grimaced as Varric interrupted with a surprised whistle. “I'm pretty sure the Grand Clerics are just going to love that, General. The Inquisitor deflowered a Chantry sister. You certainly know how to complicate a situation.” Maxwell sighed and continued. 

“You know when you see that perfect vintage, or the most beautiful flower in a garden or a painting that breathes with life...and you must have it. Possess it so that you can drink it in and see it and touch it and know that this beautiful thing is yours.” Reluctantly Varric nodded. “Angelica was like that. Not what the people of the courts would call beautiful, but alive with faith and life and passion. Her eyes...her eyes were...” He couldn't say it. Instead he lowered his head to kiss the baby's tiny pate. He was unaccustomed to feeling shame and it burned on his tongue as he continued.

“And so I set myself to possess her. I wooed her. I gained the heart of this woman who loved so fully and so freely. I took her to bed and made her mine in spite of her vows, in spite of the consequences. I took her, and then months later when my father called me to my duty, I left her to bear those consequences alone. And yet, even with those consequences, even after that betrayal she saved my life. I would say I don't understand it but that isn't true. For her, love always seemed easier than hate.”

His face twisted in an unaccustomed self loathing. He'd never understood how soul wrenching guilt could be. It made him not want to breath, much less speak, but Varric was watching, eyes sharp with a need to understand. 

“She was a peasant, it didn't even occur to me to consider anything but that this was a short lived tryst. A way to pass the time with a beautiful woman and drown my doubts about myself and my place in my family as a younger son. Possessing her attention as a salve to my own insecurity.” He fell silent. 

“And? That's only the first chapter of the story, General. Which chapter does the baby come in?” Varric's voice was so dry it could turn a forest into a desert. Maxwell frowned as he answered. 

“I tried to do what I'd been taught was appropriate in these situations. A few months later, when I was settled again back in Ostwick, I sent her money. But the messenger returned to tell me that she was pregnant and the Chantry had turned her away, thrown her on the mercy of the world.” 

“And we both know how much mercy the world throws back.” Varric muttered and Maxwell nodded. 

“She was pregnant with my bastard so I set scouts to search for her, to make sure that she was watched in case she decided to use that against my family, to know if the baby was a boy or a girl.” He paused to smile grimly at Varric. “Because who knows when that noble bastard may be useful. She'd gone to Redcliffe to have the baby and I was told it was a girl. Told to forget her, but I couldn't completely so I kept them watched. Not helped, just watched.”

The baby grabbed the finger he had used to stroke the soft little cheek and his heart caught in his throat a moment before he could continue. “Then she left Redcliffe with a merchant's caravan and I was told she intended to find employment in a smaller town.” He paused. He'd never questioned all those things he had been _told_. If he had...

“The merchant...was killed in the outbreak of fighting between the templars and mages at the Crossroads. I was told there were no survivors. That she and the infant had died.” He couldn't continue. 

He'd been mildly surprised at the sharpness of the pain in his heart when he'd heard they were dead. His father had said he'd get past it, she was unimportant. But it had hurt longer than he'd expected. She was a peasant, yes, but she had also been a vibrant, passionate, intelligent woman. He'd had nightmares about her body crushed, twisted, facing all the degradations of combat. When his father had sent him to the Conclave to get him away from his thoughts, he'd been grateful for the respite. 

His prolonged silence was punctuated with Salvisa's restless whimpers and Varric's angry breathing. Finally Varric spoke into the quiet. “I guess the important question now is what will you do with her, and her mother?” 

Maxwell nodded. “The Chantry has heard of Angelica now and is watching. The Grand Clerics are in a tizzy that a potential apostate is being named the Voice of the Maker. She needs to be evaluated and pronounced harmless, for her own safety as well as the Inquisitions.” 

“And so you've sent her to your own mages. People you trust not to harm her.” Varric's response wasn't a question but his voice thawed a little. “What about Princess here? What do you intend to do with her?” 

Maxwell sighed. “They don't know yet about the baby. As you said, that will complicate things if it gets out.” His hands tightened possessively around the little form. He couldn't just put her away from him as he'd done with her mother. She was his responsibility. HIS daughter. He was good at making decisions. He made one now. 

“The Chantry can go fuck itself. I failed her and her mother before. I will not do so again.” The fierceness in his voice surprised him. It certainly surprised Varric, who took a step back.

“Okay General, I'd like to help you do that not-failing-them thing. I gave my word I'd keep the Princess here, safe. And that I wouldn't let Frosty be harmed either. I intend to keep my word. To _both_ of them.” Varric's voice was not threatening, but there was an undertone to it, a man to man bit of posturing they both understood. It was a warning.

***

The world had gone surreal and faded again. Somewhere in her consciousness, Angelica knew that it was the distance of shock and that when this wore off the grief and fear would strike again. So she clung to it, bringing her focus inward and only noting small irrelevancies, the unevenness of the steps to the keep, the red mask worn by one of the courtiers that stared at her tear-streaked face as she stumbled through the main hall, the Commander's guiding (and imprisoning) arm around her (was his hand trembling?). And, finally, the muted colors and shapes that graced the walls of the round room where he brought her to a halt, gently seating her on a pale couch and then turning to address the three who stood there staring at her with a mixture of patience, irritation and curiosity.

“You have been given the pertinent information?” His voice was matter of fact and she hadn't realized until that moment that one of the templars had followed and taken up a station next to the couch. Rather than consider the templar, she turned her eyes listlessly to the three watching her.

She recognized two of them. Dorian was watching her with an unreadable expression and Solas, the elf that Varric had taken her to, was watching in undisguised curiosity. The third person was someone she'd never seen before. Tall, regal, beautiful and looking at her with undisguised irritation. Her coat had sparkles, Angelica's mind noted irrelevantly. 

Dorian was the first to speak. “Yes Commander. We are to evaluate the subject for magical aptitude. Find out how she does...whatever it is she does. I see tears. Tell me, Commander, has she been already...questioned?” Dorian's voice was soft and polite, she noted. Almost _too_ soft and polite. 

Clearly the Commander (Maxwell called him Cullen? She pondered distractedly) had picked up on the undercurrent of Dorian's words and his response was conciliatory. “No, she is just distraught at being separated from her baby... _temporarily_.” 

“Indeed darling, a baby here would be most unwise. Now run along Commander and let us get this over with.” The tall woman swept closer and regarded her a moment while Angelica looked up at her out of habit rather than any desire to know. The woman's gaze was disconcertingly sharp. She felt like a rabbit being mesmerized by a serpent and didn't notice the exit of the Commander. 

As soon as the door closed behind him, however, all three of them swooped upon her.

***

Hours later, her emotional distance had completely fled. She'd been poked, prodded, bled (not fun), exposed to lyrium (no reaction), made to chant strange words she didn't understand (also no reaction), and Solas had even put her to sleep at one point trying to see if he could talk to her in the fade (the answer was no). 

Currently, she was standing inside an inscribed circle the three had enchanted with so much magic that it glowed with blue fire higher than her head. She felt like an insect in a bottle.

“Have you tried warping the veil to see if that pulled a reaction?” Dorian. “We tried that an hour ago darling. Surely your tiny little Tevinter mind remembers that?” Vivienne. “Connection to the veil is not a given in elven magic. Perhaps we should try a more natural source.” Solas. “Please, she is demonstrably human. Something _you_ can not claim to understand.” Dorian. “Perhaps, if you stopped preening that dreadful mustache and used some of your necromancy.” Vivienne. “We tried that _two_ hours ago, surely that hat hasn't compressed your fashionable little Orlesian brain?” Dorian. “We could call Cassandra to set the lyrium in her blood aflame. It will hurt, but it will prove-” Solas's idea was cut off when both Dorian and Vivienne chimed in. “NO.”

The bickering continued in that vein and Angelica finally tuned them out. At least they were leaving her alone for the moment, even though the flaming circle was rather intimidating. She forced herself to relax in that space of peace. Eventually they'd realize she wasn't a mage and she would be freed. What would she do then? Perhaps with the money Max...the Inquisitor had said he would give her she could take the children and go to Denerim or Amaranthine or...really anywhere far from here. As she pondered the idea, she felt her heart get lighter. She would go away from accusations, away from threats, away from violence, away from _him._

“Well, my dear confounded darlings, the answer is clearly in front of us. We just don't want to admit it.” Vivienne's voice finally cut across the other two like sharpened steel and they fell silent. Angelica could barely see them through the flame, but she could hear them and her attention was drawn as surely as the others. 

“And what is this answer you are so certain of?” Solas replied. Even the normally calm elven man sounded frustrated. 

Vivienne's pause seemed calculated for maximum impact. “She is NOT actually a mage.”

Silence greeted her pronouncement for a moment before Dorian responded thoughtfully. “Well, she has responded to nothing. No impetus, no defense, no spark, no sign of any gift at all. I believe you may be right.” 

FINALLY, they had figured it out. Angelica felt nearly lightheaded with relief. She would be freed. She would be allowed to hold her baby again. She would be allowed to leave. She would take the children and… 

As her fear faded she finally realized someone above her suffered. A suffering so intense in it's silence that it bled into her heart like a wail of despair. She wanted to weep, she wanted to scream, she loved that suffering heart so much. One of the Makers precious children needed to know he still loved her. Needed to feel that he still loved her. 

She stepped out of the circle, ignoring the flare of the blue flame that likely should have incinerated her. She barely registered the gaping of the three mages as she headed for the stairs. She didn't care that in silence they followed her (along with the clatter of the templar in his armor). She was focused only on the _need_ to sooth that wounded soul. 

By the time she had reached the top of that first set of stairs, tears were running down her face in sympathy at the pain held inside. She passed the books, she passed the people perusing the tall shelves. She didn't care that they turned to watch as she passed the tables and then…

The woman with the sunburst on her head turned to look at her dispassionately. “May I help you?” Her voice was dead and dry but Angelica could hear her screaming so loudly she cringed. 

And she loved her with every piece of her heart. “The Maker loves you, so much. He can't let you suffer any longer.” And that love poured through her and filled her and filled the world and filled her hands and she reached out and touched the raised brand, and the silent screaming stopped. 

And the verbal screaming started.

***

Dorian had heard what they'd said about the Voice of the Maker. He'd mostly dismissed it but this...even after hours of testing and pushing and trying to make this happen, he hadn't expected _this_. 

Angelica had brushed through the combined might of their magic as if it hadn't existed, and then walked almost in a trance up the stairs. She hadn't seemed to notice or care that they followed. She hadn't even turned when the templar had drawn his sword and followed them all as a shining, threatening presence. 

She'd begun to weep halfway up the stairs, but still didn't seem to notice all the eyes following her as she passed through the library and stopped in front of Helisma. She'd spoken of the Maker and then touched the tranquil woman's brand. And then he watched her stagger back as the tranquil did something no tranquil should be able to do.

She _wept_.

Well, wailed more appropriately. He couldn't imagine how it would feel to have what was likely decades of disconnected emotions come rushing back. And with the extremity of her reaction, he was fairly certain that was what had happened.

He felt shaken. He believed in the Maker, but he'd also believed in the comforting fact of the Makers distance. He looked over at Angelica. She looked nearly as stunned as he felt. How odd. Had she not known what her action would do? 

Dorian moved to her side, wrapping an arm around her, both to comfort her and to, well if he were honest, hold her there so she couldn't slip away from him. 

He noted in surprise that the first person to kneel to take the cured tranquil into her arms was Vivienne, nearly in tears herself. Solas muttered something to the templar who nodded and then left.

He had no idea what to do next. This wasn't magic. This was the Maker and there was no way anyone could quantify that. It was almost a relief as the spymaster appeared at the bottom of the stairs to her rookery and took in with a glance the story told by the tableau before her. 

Leliana caught his eye before glancing down at Angelica. He nodded slightly in answer to the unspoken question. Yes, the she had just healed a tranquil. She looked around at all the people who had gathered and raised an eyebrow as she looked back at him. He nodded again. Yes, all these people witnessed it. There would be little hope of quieting them all.

He saw her take a deep breath and then gesture to him. Get her out of here while I figure this out, he read in the small movement of her fingers.

  
And so he lead Angelica out of the library while all eyes were on the sobbing former tranquil crouched on the floor.

_The horde hungered._

_The Largest of the Mothers Children knew they wouldn't wait much longer before they would ignore the controls and descend on the human tent city crouched at the base of the fortress in a wave of bloodlust that would utterly destroy it. And that would bring retaliation that would divert the Mother's will._

_If the light would not come out to them, soon they would have to find a way in to her._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, this is where we begin to diverge from canon. Don't fear, I have a plan. 
> 
> A word about Maxwell's POV in this chapter. I once had a friend of mine describe what it was like to hold his new baby in his arms the first time. The wave of protectiveness that had passed through him in that moment. I've always thought it was a beautiful thing so I've added it here.
> 
> Also, I'm still debating on romance options. I have multiple ideas in mind, and I like all of them. But, I can't make all of them fit nicely into this story so I'd love to hear your thoughts on who you'd like to be the romantic end game for our persecuted Angelica. Options are: 1. Maxwell, 2. Varric, 3. Cullen, 4. Mystery Option that is appearing in a few more chapters.


	9. The Dark Arrives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian hides Angelica, the Advisors face the tranquil and Skyhold is attacked.

****_The Largest of the Mother's Children barely felt it when the scout died. That quick flash of tainted spark flailing out and then gone in a rush of water. He'd felt many such die and it always meant nothing. They meant nothing._

_This time, however, the instant before the scout had died meant everything. Wooden support beams hanging over rushing water that had worn an opening through the confounding stone to the dark places beneath. An opening the humans had set no immediate watch over._

_He didn't need to gesture or order. They all knew in the instant he decided and swarmed up into the darkness. The Light would be theirs. Tonight._

“Where are we going?” Angelica asked tentatively. As she looked up at Dorian's grim face, she thought maybe she didn't want to know.

“Somewhere that no one here will expect _me_ to take a woman.” His answer was odd but he smiled wryly down at her, perhaps to keep her from being afraid at such a threatening pronouncement.

If that was his intent, it hadn't worked.

He'd taken her through a door at the back of the library, across a strange balcony that had been turned into someone's bedroom (how odd) and was now leading her through a door to the outside. “It's night!” She exclaimed as they passed onto a long rampart and turned right. The testing had taken all day. Where the children alright? Was her baby alright? Where were they? The worry prompted the words. “Where are the children? Where is my baby?” Dorian sighed. “I'm not certain where they are, but I AM certain that they are well cared for.”

She wasn't as certain as he was and couldn't stop her body from tensing. She was getting awful damn tired of being shuffled around like a thing rather than a person. Bitterness tried to rise in her but it couldn't find sufficient foothold for her to take action. Yet.

Perhaps he felt her uncharacteristic bit of rebellion because he gave her a small squeeze with the arm wrapped so carefully around her shoulders. Or perhaps he was making sure she wouldn't run. She thought he was a friend, but with what had just happened in the library she couldn't be sure that was still true. Perhaps he tuned in to that too, because his next words were surprisingly appropriate. “I wouldn't let anyone harm them. I would never abandon a promising chess partner.”

“Alright.” She acquiesced as he took her to one of a line of doors that opened onto the balcony over the garden. She stopped dead when she saw the room it opened onto, however.

The furniture was utilitarian, but the rest was clearly not. Fine Tevinter patterned fabrics draped the wooden surfaces while books and diagrams and a few bottles of some kind of alcohol littered nearly every table but the one to the side of the fireplace. Fine leather armor and robes graced several stands along one wall. And in the center, the bed was covered in warm blankets and more pillows than she'd ever seen. The room matched the man she realized as she glanced up at his well groomed face.

At her stop he looked down at her, quizzically. “No need to fear. You are a beautiful woman, but I have no intentions against your virtue. Quite the opposite in fact.”

It was Angelica's turn to look quizzical. What was he talking about? She knew how thin and ragged she looked. “I'm not beautiful. I...didn't even think of that. I just, are you hiding me?”

He actually laughed. “Well, dear lady, you catch on quickly, although I do disagree on the relative merits of your appearance. Some decent clothing and a bath and the world will be at your feet.” He grimaced. “Although after...healing the tranquil, I have a feeling that they already will be. Either that or trying to kill you.”

He stepped into the room past her and with a slight flick of his hand and a muttered word she didn't understand the fireplace was blazing. “And now, my arm is nearly frozen from holding you. I think perhaps you should come in out of the weather.”

Makers mercy, she hadn't been warm in what felt like forever. She was cold so often that she'd given up on the idea of ever feeling truly warm again. If he was luring her, he'd chosen exactly the right tactic.

Admitting defeat, she swallowed and then stepped in, and then further in...then with a rush she nearly threw herself in front of the fire. Eye's closed to drink in it's warmth, fingers held close enough she could feel the hair curling on her arms. She hadn't realized the amount of tension her body had been using to keep her going in this icy fortress until it began to drain away.

“This...feels like heaven.” Her voice couldn't help but reflect the sheer relief of finally feeling warm. Feeling _normal_ for a moment. Tomorrow would be anything but normal. She knew it. She'd had very little contact with the tranquil outside the few at the Chantry in Edgehall but she knew the basics of what being made tranquil meant. And from what she'd heard, there was no cure. A flash of thought crossed her mind. She knew it was the Maker who did these things, but how? Why her? Her mind skittered away from looking at the topic too closely. Instead she leaned in a bit, folding her arms across her body so she could scoot closer to the fire. The world began to fade away with the heat.

Dorian laughed softly as he came to stand beside her. “They will never forgive me if I let you catch yourself on fire by falling asleep in the fireplace. But, I completely agree. Some days I feel as though I must become a statue of ice here if I stand still too long.” Touching her shoulder gently he spoke more quietly. “You've had a trying day, and I have a feeling tomorrow will be more so. You will be safe here tonight. I'm going to step out to get us something to eat. Promise me you won't try to leave?”

She pondered that a moment. She could feel the delayed desperation of worry for the children, but it was muffled under the relaxation of finally feeling truly warm and safe. Her eyes began to droop as her muscles fully relaxed in the heat. It _had_ been a very long, VERY LONG day. Perhaps the Maker would forgiver her this one moment of selfishness.

“Maxwell won't hurt the baby. He wouldn't if he believes she-” She could feel herself nodding off and started awake again. Dorian's puzzled silence was all but palpable, but instead of asking what she meant he helped her off the floor and guided her to sit on the bed.

“I hope my father never hears about this,” he muttered as he removed her threadbare shoes, glancing at them with a grimace of distaste. “I'm sorry. I don't want to put you out.” She muttered. Sleep was rising up like a tide of darkness to claim her exhausted mind and heart.

“Pish. Now, rest. I'll wake you for sustenance...if I can find anything reasonable at this hour.” He gently pushed on her forehead with an arrogant huff, tipping her onto the pile of blankets and pillows.

Maker, Andraste, whoever else she couldn't think in this moment to invoke, she'd never felt anything so comfortable in her entire plebian life. It was like laying on clouds. She roused just enough to mutter as he left, “Dorian?” He looked back from the doorway. “Yes?”

“Thank you.” He smiled and closed the door, shutting the world out and the warmth in.

***

“Merde,” Leliana swore under her breath. Getting the crowd to move away and leave the poor tranquil woman alone had been one of the more challenging things she’d done recently. The close quarters of the library balcony hadn't helped. She’d resorted to giving them her ‘look of death’ which had worked beautifully, but would likely spawn even more terrifying gossip about her before the night was through. She wasn't certain whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing. Likely a bad thing...

Finally they’d all left but Vivienne, Solas, herself and Helisma. A much more manageable group. She moved forward to kneel next to Vivienne and the tranquil woman, well, formerly-tranquil woman it seemed. She needed more information, though, to understand what had actually happened. “Helisma, talk to me. How are you feeling?”

Solas snorted at her choice of words and she cast him a glare. Helisma's wails had finally lessened to quiet sobs, but she didn't respond. Vivienne touched her cheek with surprising gentleness.

“Breathe dear, in...out, that's good. Now again. There is no rush to answer. Whenever you are ready.”

Leliana afforded herself a quick glance at the Knight Enchanter. She'd not seen her like this before. Of course, Vivienne noticed and quirked an imperious eyebrow at her. Leliana hid her smile and turned her attention back to Helisma.

“I...feel. I feel, everything. It's not my fault.” Helisma's stumbling words drew everyone's attention back to her. Fear and wonder were chasing each other across her face, until it finally settled on fear.

This could not stand, Leliana frowned. Such a beautiful thing, a healing. A gift from the Maker and the poor woman feared it. If there was any blasphemy or wrong in this, it was on the part of a Chantry that forced a mage to fear the touch of the Maker. Leliana tamped down her ire. The last thing she wanted was for this tranquil...no, _mage_ to feel afraid of her gift. They'd already seen where fear had taken the mage-templar conflict. They couldn't afford to fail again. She touched the woman's brand, and spoke, not bothering to hide the wonder in her own voice.

“It will be alright. The Voice of the Maker has shown you his love. You should never need to fear that. Can you tell me what exactly happened?”

Helisma repeated herself. “I feel everything. Everything I should have felt while I was,” she stopped as if she couldn't say the word again. “All the pain, all the hurt, all the shame, everything.” A sob broke her voice, and Leliana's heart at the same time. “How do I bear that? I don't know how to...she touched me. The woman touched me and I could feel love. So much love it filled me up, and then I could feel everything.”

Vivienne broke in, deftly changing the direction of the conversation. “Darling, do you feel your magic?”

Helisma stopped for a moment. In thought, her face fell back into the cold neutrality of the tranquil expression. When she spoke again, it was a whisper. “Yes.” Vivienne drew in a worried breath.

The sounds of several pairs of feet pounded up the stairs and Leliana sighed. Time to face the music.

Or, the Inquisitor actually, as his was the first face to appear.. Followed swiftly by Cullen, Josephine, and what was likely the templar that Solas had sent to fetch them. Leliana stood and turned towards them, studying each expression as they took in the scene.

Josephine looked distracted. If she knew the ambassador, her mind was going in a thousand directions of 'how can we make this work to our benefit rather than our detriment'. Maxwell looked straight out worried and Cullen.

Her glance lingered on Cullen. He looked exhausted and drawn. It wasn't common knowledge the things he'd gone through in Kinloch and Kirkwall. Even she knew only the official accounts as he'd never consented to speak about it. He'd tried to take on a more balanced view of mages since he'd joined the Inquisition, but with mixed success. Of them all, he was the one she was most worried would create problems for the weeping woman at their feet.

***

_The Largest of the Mother's Children watched from the edge of the ledge where the scaffolding had ended. The remainder of the horde appeared as ants on the stone and wood as they followed him up the sides from the waterfall. Many had died, grips lost on the damp stone and then a silent fall into the darkness._

_But many had lived to bring a silent death to the one guard drowsily perusing the empty cells of this deep place. They filled the room waiting for his signal, silent, but restless. They wanted to feed. They wanted to take._

_But first they must help him take the Light for the Mother._

***

“So, you're telling me that she actually healed the tranquil _without_ using magic?” The Inquisitor's voice radiated with disbelief as he glared at Solas. It was all Cullen could do not to pinch his eyes. He'd directed the templar to accompany Vivienne and Helisma as the Knight Enchanter took the healed tranquil to the mages quarters. He'd noted the tension in all three of them as they'd left.

Andraste preserve them, but this situation was set to create a firestorm of conflict. Maker, why do you always sit me right in the center of these things? Cullen wanted to rant at the heavens, but instead he stood silently listening as Maxwell questioned.

He himself was already conflicted about this. He'd witnessed the woman perform a possible miracle once, but had half explained it away as the healers being wrong and the Inquisitor not having actually been dead. Adding this to that, however, meant...things he really wasn't ready to ponder.

“Yes, that is exactly what I am saying. I don't know how she has done this, but clearly, the mage is no longer tranquil. There were three of us AND a templar there to witness that this was not done through magic.” The elven apostate looked unconcerned as he responded. This time Cullen did pinch his eyes.

“That can't be the case. It's impossible,” he cut in, following it with a silent plea, please Maker, let it be impossible. Leliana spoke up. “Doesn't the Chantry teach that all things are possible for the Maker?” She had been mostly silent as they'd listened to the report of what had taken place. Cullen sighed inside. Here it was. Conflict.

“It does, but she is not the Maker.” Maxwell answered tersely. “Do you not believe in your own God?” Solas asked, with perhaps a shade of irritation. Cullen sighed again. It was clear the mage intended to be difficult about this. With frustration he noticed his hands were shaking. Damn, this was not the time.

Maxwell gritted his teeth. “I do, but I know her. She's not divine, she can't be.”

“Why not?” The smooth drawl interrupted and they all turned to Dorian as he leaned nonchalantly against the doorway he'd just come through. Leliana had said he'd taken the woman, Angelica, away from the crowd but she wasn't with him now, Cullen noted.

Maxwell sighed. “Because the Chantry has already sent threats about the claims of her being the voice of the Maker and because-” Maxwell grimaced. “Because if she is, then my sin is much greater than I'd ever thought and I don't want that to be true.”

“Such honesty becomes you. However, it doesn't change the fact that there was no sign of magic in her actions.” Solas gestured then folded his hands behind his back. Dorian nodded and, abandoning his pose, stepped forward to officially enter the debate. “I can attest, there was no feeling of the veil at all, nor of the fade. None of the tingling sense we get of each others magic when we use it.”

“Where is she?” Cullen asked what he considered the more important question, frowning again when Dorian grimaced and answered evasively. “She is in a safe place where I can watch her. Currently she is sleeping. She has had a long day.” He turned pointedly to the Inquisitor. “She was very concerned about the disposition of the children and her baby.”

“They are being kept in a safe and comfortable place. She need not worry about them. Once we've settled the danger her actions pose to them and the Inquisition, they will be returned to her care.” Maxwell rubbed his face with a tired frown. “The infant is my daughter so we...that is a private matter for she and I to discuss.”

Ah, so the scene he'd witnessed that morning had been exactly what it had seemed. This whole thing was just getting better and better. And by that, Cullen grimaced, he meant not. He could feel the disconnection of the lyrium withdrawal creeping up on him. It had been getting worse lately, even after months of being abstinent. This had to be the worst possible time for that to be an issue. He began focusing tightly on the faces of the people around him as an anchor.

Solas had just raised his eyebrows, but from the stunned look on his face, Dorian hadn't known about Maxwell and the woman either. Maxwell, always direct, wasn't meeting anyone's eyes and Josephine looked sad. Leliana was watching him back. Wonderful. He clasped his hands behind his back so she wouldn't see the shaking.

Josephine stepped into the center of the small group and took charge. “Be that as it may, our first question is how do we deal with a mage who had been made tranquil? Doesn't that mean she was at one time considered a danger?”

Now that, he could answer. “I've sent a templar with them and he will stand vigil tonight. If she can't control her magic he will take action to make sure she doesn't have access to it...until she can handle it." The last bit garnered an approving nod from Leliana.

Solas stepped forward to add his piece. “I will join her in the fade while she sleeps to see what I can identify in relation to her abilities. If she is a full mage again it will manifest there. I should also be able to protect her so that no demonic being may influence her while she is in this time of risk.”

Cullen wasn't comfortable with the idea of an apostate elf being their first line of defense against demonic possession. But the others were nodding in agreement with Solas. He would trust their judgment, difficult though that still was for him sometimes. He was becoming increasingly aware his tolerance of mages was not as balanced as it should be. Perhaps one day it would, but for now there was one piece of this mess that hadn't been addressed.

“Dorian, you will take me to the woman.” Dorian opened his mouth to respond and Cullen cut him off.

“Now.”

***

_The tension in the horde was near snapping. The Largest of the Mothers Children decided it was time to let it break in the bodies of the humans._

_At his unspoken command they moved silently up the stone stairs that were like and unlike the ones of the deep. This had been a dungeon. Now it was a conduit for destruction._

_It was time._

_***_

Dorian froze in the open doorway to his room. “Is everything alright?” Cullen asked from behind him. Wordlessly the mage stepped into the firelit space, making way for the others to follow him. Cullen stepped in and froze as well a moment before glancing back at Maxwell behind him.

Maxwell paused then moved to the doorway. “You brought her to your quarters? Dorian, that's just...” Dangerous? Scandalous (at least for those who didn't know Dorian's proclivities)? Smart? Here he was deflecting again. He wasn't sure he was ready to face her, but he couldn't justify leaving this to someone else. His eyes followed the others and there she was.

She lay in the bed, huddled in the warm blankets even with the roaring fire. Her face was gentle in sleep and hands curled under her chin like a child's. It made him remember...He pulled his eyes from her face and finally noticed what the other two men had.

The aged wood of the headboard on the bed had sprouted in impossible roses. The green and red almost a crown against the brunette of her hair.

“Red, my favorite.” Dorian spoke in a whisper as he moved forward to touch a flower above her sleeping head. “How can this be?” Cullen's voice had also fallen into a nervous whisper.

Maxwell felt like his heart had stopped. How indeed? He moved forward to the other side of the bed and reached to touch her face, stopping just short of her skin. She looked so peaceful. He shouldn't be the one to wake her for questioning. He looked up at Cullen. “Would you?”

He fell silent. The Commander had stiffened, drawing his sword and moving towards the open door. Frowning, Maxwell drew his own sword and followed. He didn't hear anything, but something felt wrong in the silence of the nighttime courtyard.

His neck prickled as Cullen shouted to the watch. “We are attacked!”

At the other edge of the garden below them the sound of shattering wood and running feet followed hard on the Commander’s warning. Maxwell ran for the end of the rampart, the adrenaline of pending battle rushed through his blood. The misshapen shadows reflecting in the light of the watch torches could only be one thing.

Darkspawn were attacking Skyhold from inside the walls.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a screenwriter we're taught to not describe things very much at all. I find myself fighting that training here and am really working on it. It means the early chapters, while meant to feel a bit dreamlike are also not very clear on the settings and people. I'll be going back in and changing that some this weekend. 
> 
> I've also assumed that the bulk of my readers are familiar with Inquisition so I've left off common descriptions of the main characters as well as Haven and Skyhold. If that is making things confusing or less interesting, let me know please.


	10. The Dark Takes

Cullen ran for the door to the main keep shouting commands to the scrambling guards on the battlements. “Madden, sound the alarm. Belinda, Pellane, defend the western stairs. Keep them off the battlements. Rion, Maker help us, you need to stop them from getting through the entrance to the south. Dorian, help Rion! Everyone to arms!” And then he was through the door and clattering down the stairs to the main hall.

Maxwell leapt past him to the end of the balcony and looked over. Darkspawn surged in a thin stream from the broken doorway to the dungeon, already filling the courtyard and trickling through the opening to the southern yard and stables. His mind swept past the unlikeliness of this attack and moved to the tactical. Stop the flow, then deal with those inside. _Then_ figure out how this could have happened.

With a shout he threw himself off the battlement and onto the cluster of genlocks that had just rushed through the door. Pulling them to the ground with him as he rolled to his feet. Slash, push, parry...Spinning, his sword sprayed a swath of tainted blood at the garden walls as more surged into the courtyard past him.

Past him...even though he was the first opponent in sight. They were behaving oddly, splitting to avoid him rather than engage. Running for the battlement stairs and building doorways. He'd hoped to bottle them up at their entrance but for each one he slew, another two ran past him into the darkness. He could not allow them to harm the civilians and, Andraste preserve them, the visiting nobility. “Don't let them get inside!” He shouted to the soldiers swarming out of the bunks above the blacksmiths building.

Several tried to climb the rough garden wall. “Sorry, I don't want you mussing my quarters.” Dorian's voice sounded almost bored as an ice spell slicked the stones, sending darkspawn sliding down into Maxwell's whirling blade.

“Darling, really, your taste in furniture is completely relevant for Darkspawn. I'm sure they ache to have you decorate for them.” Vivienne's dry tones matched the fire she rained down as she stepped out onto her balcony above the courtyard. “Vivienne, can you stop them on the south stairs from your vantage?” Maxwell shouted and she turned to lance lightning down at the group that had run through the arch. “I will do my best, dear. And my best is very good.”

Maxwell spun to deflect an incoming attack as a mass of hurlocks broke through the doorway and rushed forward, pushing him back. At their center he heard the hissing build of a spell. “They have an emmisary with them!” His shout was answered by a storm of arrows raining from above. Leliana and her scouts had awoken, thank the Maker.

Even with the ranged help, the battle around him became fierce. Soon his pommel was slick with blood, much of it his own. The struggle to keep their tainted fluid from him making the fight harder than he'd have liked.

His attention vaguely acknowledged the roar from the area near the tavern. The Iron Bull had entered the battle, hopefully with the Chargers, but he didn't spare the time to look. Then from the top of the stairs to the main hall. Cullen's shouted commands interspersed with the grunts of exertion and the clash of weapons. Another crash as the emissary loosed a ball of his own fire at the tower, stilling the archers as they ducked for cover.

Then behind them all, last through the doorway hunched the largest darkspawn he had ever seen. He'd fought them before, even though he'd been young during the last blight. But this, this was more than just an alpha. As it straightened it towered over the other hurlocks but did not engage any of the combatants around it.

Something was off, Maxwell thought as he struggled to maintain his footing in the sea of tainted blood now drowning the grass of the courtyard. They weren't acting like normal darkspawn. Maxwell's mind raced. The darkspawn would lose, bottlenecked and outmanned. So why were they here? They weren't completely mindless, for all their lack of individual thought. Something wasn't right.

The hurlock general tilted it's head as if listening. It didn't gesture but the rest of the darkspawn redoubled the fierceness of their attack forcing the defenders attention to themselves. Instead the the massive creature looked up past the wall, it's head turning as if searching out a specific prey. The skeletal nostrils flared and then it moved in one great leap to grasp the edge of the rampart and swing itself over.

Maxwell could barely see over the wall. What he did see made his gut clench. Dorian stumbled back, firing a bolt from his staff. “You ARE a big boy! A little help here!” A low roar and a swipe of it's sword was the monstrous darkspawn's only reaction to the sizzle of it's flesh. A grunt of pain in return as the sharpened steel connected and threw the mage off the walkway.

Without pausing it strode out of his sight.

 

The horns were what woke Angelica from the deepest sleep she'd had in a long time. As consciousness slowly returned she became increasingly aware of shouts and screams. Sitting up in a disoriented rush, she realized the door to the bedroom was open and the sounds of battle outside echoing on the stone walls.

Her mind flashed to memory, _a sword piercing her stomach and more pain than she'd ever felt in her life as she fell. Armored feet crushing the small body she'd dropped as her arms had relaxed in what she was sure was impending death. The sounds and screams of fighting all around her but she couldn't move. Couldn't run. Couldn't save her daughter._

In a flash she was on her feet, panic stealing any ability to think clearly. She had to run! In swift steps she reached the doorway. She had to hide, to get away...

No, she had to find the children. She had to find her baby, the new baby she'd taken into her heart. What she would do then...it didn't matter. She had to find them. But where were they?

She couldn't see the fighting from there, but people were gathering in a rush in the garden, crying, screaming. Soldiers gathering near the entrances. ARN! Arn was there and near him the dark form of Leesa. In the press she couldn't see the other children.

She rushed to the end of the balcony over the garden. Maker curse it, here was no way down! Shouting above the din, she waved until Arn looked up and saw her. “ARN! Arn, are the other children there?”

She couldn't hear his response but she understood the nod of his head. “And the baby?” Arn or Leesa were the ones who carried the infant, but neither had it then. She had to repeat herself twice more, along with rocking motions for them to understand as the sounds of fighting on the other side of the garden wall intensified. Finally Arn shook his head and gestured towards the main hall. With a nod she turned and ran towards the door that opened onto the keep. In her desperate focus she barely registered Dorian at the other end of the balcony, firing bright flashes into the darkness.

Until the monster appeared on the ledge, swinging it's sword and toppling her friend into the garden.

She stood there frozen in terror a moment, gawking at the hulking form as it's eyes…it's horrible dead eyes turned on her and it began a steady approach.

The baby, she had to get to Salvisa. She couldn't fail again. With renewed vigor (and panic) Angelica darted into the doorway. She wouldn't make it across the balcony in time and with more courage than she had ever thought she owned, she jumped from the lower part of the ledge to the main hall.

 

Varric panted as they finally managed to get the massive door to the main keep closed and barred. It had been a challenge to shut against the attackers that kept trying to slip past Cullen and his soldiers on the stairs outside. That damn door was heavier than the Makers massive prick he was certain. “Well, all smooth sailing from...” He turned just in time to see Angelica, of all people, rush through an upper door and leap off the balcony to the floor.

Her landing was hard, and he heard the snap of bone as she cried out. “Frosty, welcome to the party,” he stated calmly. The swiftness with which he shouldered his weapon and grabbed for her arm belied the tone of voice. “What the hell is little miss miracle doing leaping off ledges?”

“Varric, where is the baby?” She panted in pain and exertion as she tried to step away from him, stumbling on the broken foot. “It's coming…behind me.” What was coming? The balcony she'd come from was one of the safest places in Skyhold so far as he knew. Only one entrance, second floor, away from the main gate of the castle...there was a reason the visiting nobles (now crowded in a terrified huddle against the far wall) were so often housed along there.

“Don't worry Frosty, that baby is probably the safest person in this whole damn...” His voice cut off as behind her the largest Maker damned darkspawn he had ever seen strode through the doorway she'd just run through. “SHIT!” He raised his crossbow as the monster leapt from the balcony.

He managed to get one good shot into it before it reached for Angelica. “RUN FROSTY! We got this!” He shouted. But she'd frozen in place... _that_ look on her face. Varric's heart jumped into his throat. “Not now Frosty. This isn't the time for miracles.”

And then it was too late. She turned, blocking his ability to shoot. Raising a tender hand to the beast behind her. But the beast grabbed her throat and she collapsed. Whether dead or unconscious Varric couldn't tell as he rolled to the side to get a clearer shot.

The surprised soldiers rushed the darkspawn general. “Please don't die!” He didn't even realize he'd cried out as the monstrous humanoid ignored the slashes that splattered it's blood along the stone flooring. It ignored Varric's own bolts that peppered it's back. Instead it tucked the woman he'd sworn to protect under it's arm and leapt for the balcony and then out through the door it had entered from.

“SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!”

 

Maxwell was tiring. He'd moved his part of the battle from the now empty dungeon door to the base of the archway below the stairs. Most of the civilians lived in that section of the keep. He could only pray that Blackwall and whatever soldiers were housed there were enough to stop what had gotten past him initially.

“Makers fucking face tits!” Sera's curse rising above the clamor almost made him smile. He thrust forward one handed, wiping the blood of a head wound from his eyes with his other.

Then the darkspawn general re-appeared. Leaping from the balcony above the dungeon door it fled into the dark passageway. But not before Maxwell saw what it was carrying.

“Angelica!” With a mighty blow he moved to pursue, but so did every darkspawn still in the courtyard. They massed into the doorway in a rush, fighting in a last fierce desperation as they fled. Delaying...so many died in that space that the doorway was painted black with tainted blood.

Maxwell, Cullen and what soldiers would fit in the tight staircase pursued and even managed to kill another score of the hideous creatures before what was left had climbed like rats down into the darkness.

He stood, panting from the exertion, the sound of the waterfall an empty counterpoint. He didn't know how to feel in that moment.

Cullen spoke, exhaustion and something else in his voice. “She is the only one they took.”

 

_The Largest of the Mothers Children hurt. He bled and ached and rejoiced as he carried his precious burden into the darkness. Only a few of the horde still lived. But it was enough._

_He looked down at the Light glowing in his arms. It's breathing was broken. Mother would be pleased, but only if he could keep the Light alive to bring it to her._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, there will be explicit content and trigger warnings for the next chapter. I will be doing a modified version of it on fanfiction.net that is more PG13 for those who don't want the explicit content.


	11. A Perfect Taint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rescue is delayed and Varric meets Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS, ADULT CONTENT, NON CONSENSUAL SEXUAL SITUATIONS...BAD JUJU  
> Important bad juju though. If you would like to skip the harsh scene, I have a much less explicit or triggery version published at https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11795544/11/The-Makers-Herald

 

Leliana rubbed eyes that burned with exhaustion. Maker take this whole damn night, she thought, looking around at the rest of the equally exhausted people huddled around the war table. Morning hadn't brought any chance at rest as they dealt with the ramifications of the attack.

Josephine looked small and drawn, huddled in the chair dragged in from her office. Cassandra looked as though she would set the huge table on fire with the ferocity of her gaze. She moved her consideration to Maxwell. The Inquisitor stood completely still, only the crackle of the green at his palm showing his internal struggle.

Cullen paced, eyes feverish and armor still splattered with the black blood he'd spilled during the night. Clearly he was taking the attack as a personal assault on his ability to keep Skyhold safe. Leliana's gaze came back to him. Something was wrong with him. Why did no one else notice?

The last person in the room, Varric had slipped in with them and stood with hands behind his back, looking at no one.

“How did this happen?” Cassandra's voice was as fierce as her gaze. Cullen straightened and answered. He looked like he was expecting a blow, Leliana thought. “Tunnels, just below the surface of the cliff face. The rudimentary openings were hidden by the waterfall.”

He pinched his eyes. “It's my fault. My poor call to have no real guards stationed at the opening. They used our own scaffolding to climb up to the dungeon. I should...I should resign my post.”

“No!” Maxwell's voice was firm and echoed by Cassandra's. “We could have had no idea that darkspawn would attack. Since the last blight they've nearly disappeared on the surface.”

“Why did they attack?” Josephine's voice sounded less confident than usual. She'd seen battle before, Leliana knew, but perhaps not the horror that were darkspawn. Varric answered her, no banter in his voice, whatsoever. “They weren't after food. They weren't after hostages. They only took one thing. One person.”

Maxwell's voice took over from Varric's, low and still. “Angelica.” Leliana nodded, her heart clenching. Why? Why would darkspawn want the Voice of the Maker?

“Someone must be controlling them. They must have been sent. But why?” Leliana asked the question she knew was on all their minds. Varric responded. “For once, even the writer in me doesn't care why, Nightingale. How do we get her back?”

''She's likely dead, or a ghoul already.” Leliana spoke grimly. “I traveled with the Hero of Ferelden during the last blight. It was horrific what they would do to captives.” She couldn't help swallowing at the memory of Hespith and the horrors they'd found in the deep roads. “Especially to female captives.” She couldn't continue. All eyes dropped to the floor rather than look at each others and the truth of what that could mean.

“No.” Maxwell's voice was firm, not betraying the emotion his clenched fists showed. “We will not abandon her that way. We will find her, and if she is no longer saveable, we will make certain she has a swift and painless death.” Finally the conflict inside showed in his voice as it broke. “I can't just let her suffer.”

A knock on the heavy door interrupted his words. When it opened without invitation all eyes turned to the intruder. It was Mother Giselle, her face so grim that the censure Cassandra had clearly intended seemed to have died on her lips. Behind her, a dark haired man peered in the doorway and Varric stiffened. A quick glance at Cassandra and he was out the door like a shadow.

The Revered Mother spoke without preamble. “Chantry representatives have just arrived. If we are to stop the damage that an apparent attack on Skyhold will do to their confidence in us, we must address them now.” Josephine groaned and Cassandra struck the table in frustration.

Maxwell moved to stare piercingly down at Mother Giselle. “We have more important things to deal with immediately, Revered Mother. One of our own is missing, taken in the attack. My first order of business is to pursue and rescue her.”

The Revered Mother did not seem cowed. “Do you really want the might of the Chantry against the Inquisition? Yes, without the templars their fighting power is limited, but their ability to sway the public against us could all but destroy us. Imagine, no more trade. No more new recruits. No more access to those who are just barely now beginning to trust us.” She stepped away from him, confident in the rightness of her words. “Inquisitor, we are still new. And as such, vulnerable.”

Josephine's sad voice chimed in. “One person against the fate of the entire Inquisition. Even one so important as the Voice of the Maker doesn't balance the harm that not dealing with this now could do.” The petite Antivan placed a gentle hand on Maxwell's tense arm. “I'm so sorry, but you are the Inquisitor. They will need to speak with you.”

The fight seemed to go out of Maxwell's body all at once. “I understand.” He slumped against the table, looking at each of them in turn. As if to make sure they understood the shame of abandoning one of their own.

When his gaze fell on the Commander, they traded glances and Cullen nodded. What was that all about? Leliana wondered as she raised her eyebrows questioningly at Cullen.

He spoke to them all instead of her. “I need to check on the clean up and wounded. Make certain the Chantry representatives see us at the best that is possible right now.” With a pointed look back to Leliana he exited the room. “What?” Josephine's voice rose just a very little in panic. She's going to be angry, but she can handle this, Leliana justified to herself as she slipped out of the room behind Cullen.

“Alright, what's the plan, Commander?” She whispered to his back.

 

 

Angelica had no idea how much time had passed. Consciousness had come and gone as she was carried through the darkness. The only signal that she was awake in those moments was the amount of pain assaulting her foot and throat.

This time when she awoke she found herself choking, mouth filled with something noxious and dripping. She began to struggle, fighting to expel the warm mass as a hand (claw?) clamped itself over her lips. Forcing her to swallow or die.

Firelight slowly grew around her with consciousness and she could see for the first time. She nearly bit the hand holding her mouth shut trying to scream at what she saw.

Surrounded...she was surrounded by monsters out of the worst of nightmares. Faces circled her, leering without lips to hide their cracked teeth. Milky, dead eyes studying her from mottled, monstrous faces. Clawed hands holding her down, pawing at what was left of her clothing.

NO NO NO! She struggled with what strength she had as the one holding her pried her mouth open, leaving bloody gouges in her jaw. She struggled to turn her head away as this one, this evil that held her mouth open slashed at it's own tongue. Forcing itself between her legs, it bent over to vomit black blood into her mouth in a horrific parody of a kiss.

She couldn't stop herself from heaving as her body, her entire _being_ clenched to reject that horrific liquid. Her thrashing intensified, but it wasn't ENOUGH. Her broken foot raged in agony and her throat burned from the tainted fluid,.

Screaming from her damaged vocal chords made little sound, but she did it anyway. In fact, she couldn't stop herself screaming as the creature jerked, tearing away the fabric of her dress. Darkness began to rise up around her as her mind rejected any ability to cope with what was coming when the twisted body levered itself above her.

And then it was ripped away from her. Behind it loomed the giant that had taken her from Skyhold. It tore the would be violator nearly in two as the offender screamed wordlessly in agony. The others scattered but it turned to them as well in silent fury. As the blood of the offending darkspawn rained down on her now bare body unconsciousness finally claimed her.

 

“So, now you know about my more recent adventures. What have you been up to?” Hawke's piercing gaze moved from the view of the mountains to Varric's face. “Besides saving the world, that is.”

“Funny man. Right now I'm having trouble saving even one person.” The dour nature of Varric's response made Hawke just a little angry. So help him, if this Inquisition was doing badly by his friend…

“Care to talk about it?” Hawke offered the dwarf a bit of emotional privacy by looking out over the wall of the battlements rather than at him. When Varric didn't answer after a few moments he grew even more concerned. Time to investigate.

“So, I ran across a runner at the tent camp yesterday. Had this really odd package for a certain dwarf...so I figured I'd help a friend out. Though what on earth you need these for...would likely make a good story?” The tall man hefted a bag at Varric, hitting him in the chest and startling him out of some form of reverie.

“What? Oh...you brought me a gift? Sorry, still won't get me to sleep with you. My heart is taken.” Varric's delayed humor was even more interesting.

“Yeah, yeah, I know Bianca would have my head if I got anywhere near your manly bits.” For all the banter in his voice, Hawke paid close attention to the dwarf's expression as he opened the bag and pulled out the first doll. “Because I'm your friend, I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt on the whole 'manly' part. Especially if those are for you.”

“Naw, I've given up my doll collection. It was worth too much money on the open market. I couldn't resist. These are for orphans.” Varric stuffed the doll back into the bag as Hawke choked back a surprised bit of laughter. “You're taking in orphans now? So when did the great Varric Tethras, rogue extraordinaire, become a pillar of the community?”

The dwarf grimaced. “On, don't worry. I'm still the lady killer reprobate with delusions of creativity that you know and love.”

“Or, I've finally rubbed off on you.” Hawke grinned. “So, are they really for orphans?” Varric grimaced. “Yes. I promised one to a bright young lady, and found that the rest of the pack got bloodthirsty when they were left out.”

Their combined laughter felt good. “It's been too damn long, my friend.” Hawke laid a warm hand on Varric's shoulder. The dwarf nodded. “Yeah, it has.”

“It will be like old times. You and me, off to save the world.” Hawke grinned, but noticed that Varric stepped out from his hand, eyes troubled.

“Yeah, about that. I...won't be going with you and the Inquisitor to Crestwood. Hawke's jaw dropped and Varric looked pleadingly up at him. “There's something else I need to do.”

“Something more important than stopping Corypheus from corrupting the Grey Wardens?”

“More immediate. If I don't go now, a very special woman will die...horribly.” Varric sighed, shrugging helplessly. “Trust me, Hawke.”

“Always, my friend.” The tall man smiled wryly down at the dwarf looking up at him. “So, lets get the Inquisitor out here to chat, and I'll take it from there. But when we all get back, you better introduce me to this 'special' woman.”

 

_The Largest of the Mother's Children sat on his haunches, watching the Light sleep._

_A human sleep, now. Not the twisting torment the Light had been going through since he'd slain the rest of the horde to keep it alive. It had been a near thing in this too. The human women they'd taken in the past had died in the dark by the many hundreds. Only a few having the strength to become the mothers. But this one was different. She would not become a mother. Her body had not begun it's change._

_Something else had changed instead. A song, her song that filled his mind with such sweet music, such pure music, that it had called a bank of surface plants to grow up around her like a thing alive while her body had twisted and suffered accepting their taint._

_He'd spent hours, perhaps days there listening to her song as it had changed and grown with her taint._

_And through him, the Mother could hear it. It buried her words to him sometimes, but he could feel her longing for it as well. The Light must survive to bring the song to the Mother. To bring it to all the mothers and all the mother's children._

_Almost without meaning to, he touched her. His tainted blood pushed him to take her. To feed her and force the change. But he was the first, the Largest of the Mother's Children. He could control himself for the Mother's sake._

_At his touch her eyes opened, unfocused and confused. They found his face and after a moment, widened in terror. She began babbling sounds at him in the ridiculous mewling of the humans._

_Then the Light scrambled away from him, causing him to growl. She could not be allowed to leave. He stood and easily grabbed her, lifting her to her own swollen feet and pulling The Light close enough to control her flight._

_Humans, even this one, were so weak. He roared, shaking her as gently as he could. Stop struggling he said without words as she thrashed against his grip._

_Suddenly she stopped thrashing. The Light looked up at him and the song became overwhelming. She uttered words he didn't understand and then she touched him._

_And everything went silent. For the first time in his entire, tainted life, he was alone in his own skull. No Mother, no brothers, no one but himself._

_Terror filled him. Panicked, he grasped her arms tighter and tighter until the Light cried out in pain._

_Pain. Why did it bother him that he had caused her pain? He must take her to the mother, that was the answer._ _But he could not find the mother in his mind. He could not feel her in the world. He must find The Mother!_

_With a wordless wail, he dropped the Light and fled into the darkness._

 

Best that Varric could tell it had been three days of swift travel underground. They'd made the decision to move hard and fast to catch up to the fleeing darkspawn.

Andraste's perfect tits, he _hated_ being underground. “I hope Frosty appreciates this.” He grumbled out loud as they finished digging their way through a rudimentary attempt to collapse the tunnel.

Speaking as if she wasn't dead almost made it feel like a possibility. He knew the internal lie. After three days in the hands of the darkspawn, that was all but impossible. But right now, as the unannounced scouting group slipped through the darkness, he decided that self delusion was the more worthy choice.

Unannounced scouting group indeed. He glanced around at the silent figures that he, himself, moved silently among. Leliana's and Cullen's best available had apparently slipped through the dungeon and into the dark tunnels below without alerting the rest of the Inquisitor's companions, the guard or even the sharp eyed Chantry representatives. He had to hand it to the Nightingale and Commander, they had been sneaky as fuck to get past the political blockades to a rescue mission.

He and Sera had slipped into the tunnels on their own. The plan to sneak through the remainder of the horde and steal her back. Or, if she had become a ghoul, a swift death with an arrow through her head. When the other scouts had ambushed them, surrounding even the two sneakiest members of the Inquisitors inner circle, he'd had to laugh.

Well, _after_ he'd nearly shit himself.

They'd tried to send he and Sera back, he and Sera had threatened to disembowel them in their sleep if they did. So in the roguish detente they'd all decided to work together to complete the mission.

Save the girl. Or kill the girl…perhaps they would be the same thing.

He'd already worked out three different speeches to tell the children that their caretaker wasn't coming back. He wasn't happy with any of them. Too dour, too dishonest or too vague. You know, he thought to himself, maybe I'll just turn that part of things over to the Inquisitor. He'd kind of earned it, really.

“Darky-spawny shits. Smell like they've been swimming in Celene's sewers.”

“Dirthara-ma, Sera.” Leliana's agent, Zelen whispered back at her. “We are too close.”

Varric wrinkled his scarred nose. “What the hell smells that bad?” His words a growly breath.

As they cautiously rounded a corner, faint firelight reflected on the stone through an opening ahead of them. Slowing to their most careful approach, they edged up to it.

Peeking out, a wall of stench hit Varric with the force of a blow. It was all he could do not to swear out loud as he ducked back behind the dubious protection of the tunnel. Once his eyes stopped watering, he poked his head around the opening again.

“Holy Maker's puckered anus.” All the wisdom in the world couldn't stop himself from cursing out loud at the sight that greeted them.

A naked, blood smeared Angelica crouched forlornly on a bank of roses in the center of a small cavern surrounded by a ring of viciously slain darkspawn. The stench of their decay indicating it wasn't a recent slaughter. 

“Frosty, you're making me think I need to start dabbling in the horror genre.”

With a surge of disgust at the dark blood dried to her body...followed by a very different kind of emotion, Varric found himself suddenly holding the naked woman. With an inarticulate cry of desperation she'd thrown herself into his arms and begun sobbing. Maker help him, he hoped she wasn't a ghoul, because he didn't think he could kill her like this.

"It's okay. You're safe now."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had written the scene with the darkspawn initially as a full on- somewhat explicit rape scene (since that IS what they do to female captives in an attempt to turn them into broodmothers according to Bioware). 
> 
> I wrote it and then I felt sick. It triggered even the writer (who went through a large number of months of PTSD counselling for those kinds of things herself). So I had to modify it for my own self. If anyone wants to see the original scene...you can request it and I'll send it. But, I may not read it again myself. :p Also, if any of my readers are dealing with the personal fallout from rape or molestation, please don't be afraid to PM me. You're not alone in this fight.
> 
> The darkspawn fascinate me and I felt the interesting questions that DAO and DAA had asked made sense to carry over to Inquisition as well. So, this won't be the last you see of them. Why an Elder God, the Architect and Corypheus all in one generation? Something is going on with the darkspawn and even though this story is my own supposition, I can't wait to see if Bioware is teasing that for DA4. Next stop, Solas reaction to all this!


	12. The Arms of the Archdemon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's difficult when there are too many good choices.  
> The Herald returns to Skyhold and a secret is revealed.
> 
> Also sex... And spoiler alert for trespasser content.

The journey through the dark back to Skyhold took five days nursing Angelica's broken foot. Funny, Varric thought to himself, how time could move both much too quickly and much too slowly in the same span.

The first order of business had been to determine, as much as they could in the dark and without healers, if she was on her way to becoming a ghoul. He'd had to step out of that deliberation, leaving it to Zelen and Thornton. He'd felt bad, when Angelica was clearly terrified of the elven man (a story there he'd have to investigate later). But he'd consoled both her and himself with the idea of Sera's presence to defend or destroy.

Of course, Sera's thoughts on the subject had been less than flattering. “Poncy git, running away from the hard stuff.” Followed by her impression of a chicken as she strutted and clucked around the group deciding whether Angelica lived to see Skyhold, or died here in the dark.

Zelen had laughed and Thornton had frowned. The other four Inquisition agents had tried hard to maintain the stoicism the decision demanded in the face of Sera's antics. All of them, however, had breathed a collective sigh of relief at the diagnosis that there was no sign of the taint in her so far. Thornton had given her his cloak to cover her nakedness and Sera had helped wash the dried blood from her. And then they left that scene of horrible carnage.

From there the 'days' had been filled with slow, silent and limping travel by torchlight. The nights…the nights had been more of a challenge for Varric than the days.

The first night (could you call it night when torches were the only demarcation of light and dark?) Angelica had crept close to him as the one she knew most of those present. In her damaged voice she'd whispered she was afraid of the dark, and really, who could blame her after what she'd been through. So he opened his blanket and let her lay there, huddled against him for warmth and safety.

She had been silent that night, sleeping deeply in the comfort of his proximity. He spent the night remembering Bianca. Pulling her image into his mind to distract from the nearly naked woman curled next to him.

The second night, she asked again and again he allowed her the safety of his bedroll. Again he pulled Bianca's memory to him as a shield.

In the middle of the rest period, she'd curled closer to him and laid her hand on his heart. “You carry a burden that isn't yours. The Maker loves you, Varric. So should the woman you love.” She whispered to him. He reached up to remove her hand but stopped, instead holding it against his chest.

It was the strangest thing. Pain that he'd had so long that he no longer noticed it's presence was suddenly gone. His heart felt light for the first time in decades. “I always thought it would take a miracle to get over...is this a miracle, Frosty?” Varric turned his headyy  to look at her, but she'd fallen back asleep. He laid awake pondering those things for a long time after, holding her hand to his heart and watching a fragile carnelian rose bloom by her head.

The third night they joked a little before sleep. Laughing in the desperate comfortable-ness that friendship created through trauma brings. She fell asleep with his arm around her, head pillowed on his shoulder. He spent the first half of the night uncomfortably aware of the fact that but for Thornton's cloak she was naked. His mind going to lascivious places, until she began twitching and murmuring in the throws of some sort of dream. “Ir abelas, ma len.” She muttered in what sounded like elven. He grimaced in the dark. Yet another puzzle of the many she presented. He let his mind work on the story of those puzzles and finally managed sleep.

That day he'd tried to keep some distance from her while they traveled. Zelen had spoken with her and she'd clearly made the effort to respond against her fear.

When the elven man had asked about the roses, Varric's attention had been grabbed. The erstwhile torturer spoke of how they'd affected Leliana and the change in her character since that night in the cell. Definitely information to hold on to for future dealings with the spymaster.

That fourth night Varric initially refused the human woman's request to share his space. Safer for them both, he thought. But at her miserable nod he had, almost eagerly if he were being honest, relented.

Later, it was only the presence of the other hunters, huddled around them in the inky blackness, that kept him from waking her with a request to sate the growing hunger in his body. He wasn't a celibate man, but with everything that had happened since Kirkwall getting in the way, he may as well have been. “Void take it, I'm a rogue. I'm not supposed to be a nice guy.” He muttered to himself in justification as light fingers stroked the skin of her back beneath the cloak while she slept. Her very soft, cool skin...

Maker's massive prick, this journey was going to kill him if it didn't end soon.

The fifth night would be the final night they'd judged based on the markings they'd left in the tunnel. He'd thought of her skin in the dark with a great deal more energy than he would have liked.

With a sigh of defeat he flipped up the edge of his blanket for her to crawl in to him. Pulling her close, he didn't bother to soften the firmness of his grasp on her back. She looked at him questioningly but didn't say anything, instead pressing herself more firmly into the warmth of his body. He would take that as a yes, he decided. And as she settled down against his shoulder, he turned his head and kissed her.

She froze a moment and thoughts of oh shit, what have I done, ran through his head. But then her lips opened to his in response. The kiss deepened and he could feel both their bodies beginning to react to the heat of the moment. His other hand slipped beneath the cloak to touch her, caressing. She gasped against his lips as roughened fingers found her breast. Her own hands gripping at his shoulders, pulling him closer to her.

He was just beginning to plan in his head how he would bed her without the witnesses around them knowing when the darkspawn attacked.

***

Solas' spirit walked the fade, pondering.

In the entire history of Skyhold, darkspawn had never attacked that place. Even in the millennia he'd lain dreaming, none of their taint had ever touched his home.

It offended him.

It puzzled him as well. Something about the woman had brought them. Something he couldn't decipher and that bothered him. He hadn't been able to determine anything unusual about her and then she would suddenly perform miracles such as even the Elvhenan could not. And as quickly return to being nothing more than a mortal woman.

As if his thoughts had summoned her she appeared, her image wavering behind an invisible curtain. Watching him with sad eyes.

He started, heart beating somewhat harder than it had been. This curtain normally only he could see as it's creator. She should not be able to see him, or he her on opposite sides of the veil. She gestured him closer and in curiosity he stepped up to the barrier. Now inches away from her he could see that it was her every detail. Angelica was the name she bore in the waking world. The Voice of the Maker her false title.

“Ma banal enasalin, ma len.” Her voice was sad but certain as she spoke the oldest tongue to him. He stiffened in anger. Who was this to tell him that he would lose, and call him child?

“Ma melana sahlin.” He responded, fist clenching. My time is come, a challenge thrown to who or what was speaking through the simulacrum of her form.

Her face grew sad. While still her voice, something slipped through, some timbre or nuance when she spoke again that made him catch his breath. An old memory, his oldest memory. “Ir abelas, ma len.”

She/He reached up and touched the veil. At the contact, Solas' entire being screamed a moment in agony, nearly undone. With a cry of pain he fell to his knees. “AMAE! Garas quenathra?”

She pulled her hand back and watched him, love filling her face as she whispered. “Nadasalin telrevas ne suli malen.” Words that even the Dalish no longer remembered. Sorrow showed in the tears that glistened on his face. “Na mara san.” He said. Then with a breath his face and voice hardened.

“In tu setheneran din emma!”

“Ar'din nuvenin na'din.” Her voice softened in opposition to the hardening of his. And then she spoke in the common words of the humans. “The Creator loves you my dearest son. Trust and you will be healed.”

“I can not trust, father. Not even you.” His response was bitter, but as she faded away from him, the veil thickening once again, he wept fully.

***

It was all Cullen could do to restrain himself. His temper had been getting shorter as the days without sleep had started taking their toll. Add to that his fear as random moments began blurring between memory and present. The Maker blasted lyrium withdrawals pushing his nightmares into his waking world.

“Maker, can't you handle even one simple order?” He took a deep breath to regain control. “The Inquisitor demanded that we keep him informed daily of our progress finding...” A calm feminine voice behind him interrupted, to the obvious relief of the scout cowering before him. “Perhaps one of my ravens will get the word to him faster?”

He didn't turn towards her. Her keen gaze was too likely to see how close to the edge he was. “Thank you, Sister Leliana. That would be helpful.” Clearly she had nodded dismissal to the scout as he turned and scurried away.

“Is everything alright Commander?” Her voice was quiet, to avoid the hearing of the others on the battlements he guessed. “Just a headache,” he lied.

He was tired of lying. He was tired of struggle. Andraste preserve him, he was just tired.

“I don't think it's...” Whatever she was going to say was cut off by shouting from the courtyard. “They're back! The Voice of the Maker is alive!”

As cheering and the bustling of people leaping to action filled the air, Cullen closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer. Thank you Maker, for your mercy in returning your voice to us. Thank you for forgiving my sin in not protecting her sufficiently. Thank you…just thank you.

His heart felt unaccountably lighter as he opened his eyes to see Leliana, eyes closed and lips moving in a silent prayer of her own. When she finished he smiled at her. “Shall we go down?” She nodded, an unaccustomed moisture in her eyes. “Yes, let us do so.”

***

The small group of darkspawn that had attacked them so near the opening had been easily defeated by her companions. During the battle Angelica had initially crouched in horror at the center of a ring of steel and arrows. When one had gotten close to her, though, she'd felt a need to touch it, she'd loved even that hideous monster. Before she could do anything it had fallen, feathered with Sera's arrows as the elven girl had whooped in celebration. It had left her confused and conflicted.

Now she blinked in the unaccustomed glare of the sunlight as they exited the torch lit dungeon they'd finally helped her climb to. She raised a hand to shield her watering eyes as someone took hold of her, leading her limping into the center of the courtyard. Her other hand gripping the cloak shut so people wouldn't see her nakedness. In her blindness she couldn't see where her companions had gone. Separated from her by the crowd.

“Varric?!” She shouted, or attempted to shout, broken voice tinged with fear. There, he responded from a widening distance. “Frosty, they're dragging me off to the healers, just...get your hands off me, woman!” The last clearly not spoken to her, his voice was swallowed up in the cacophony.

“Please, can you heal my baby?” A new voice accompanied a blurry shape shoved before her. “I...” She wasn't sure how to respond as another hand pulled her another direction. “My nephew is sick, would you speak with him? I'm certain he would be well again if you would just speak with him.” And another, “Forgive me, please grant me the Maker's forgiveness.”

More hands touched her, patting her without regard for propriety in their need to connect to what they perceived part of the Maker. More people shoved in to get closer to her until she could barely move. “My daughter was made tranquil. I heard you could help her?” Suddenly she could feel the mother's grieving heart. The uncle, the father, the son, the friend...there were so many, she couldn't breath from the crush of the need. The breadth of the love she had for them.

“The Maker loves you. He loves you so much.” She managed but only those pressed closest could hear her damaged voice. Blindly she held out her one free hand and touched. A mother's sobbing rose above the din around her. “My baby, the Maker has healed my baby!” With that cry, suddenly the press around her became more urgent, more pressing, nearly pushing her to the ground in their desperation. She became lightheaded from the lack of air clutching desperately to the cloak someone was trying to pull from her as a souvenir of the Maker's Voice. Someone pulled her forward onto her broken foot and the agony made her scream, but her broken voice let out only a croak of pain.

She loved, but her human heart soon feared as the dark edges of unconsciousness played around her vision. The desperate people drowning her both spiritually and physically in their need.

“Make room. Clear the way!” She felt the press ease a little in response to the voice of the Lion Commander's authority. But not enough. Her knees were giving when she felt more than saw his bulk as he pulled the last of the supplicants from her. A firm hand circled her shoulders, placing himself between her and the mob. “Thank you, Commander.” Her voice was shaking in reaction. She hissed in pain as her broken foot took more weight than it should have and with a curse he swept her into his arms.

She didn't know how to feel about that. No one had ever done that to her before. “My lady, we should get you to the healers.” She nodded, turning her face to mane of his armor as he swept through the crowd leaving the softly dangerous voice of Leliana behind them to clear the courtyard.

***

The first night had been alright. They made Angelica sleep in the infirmary, isolated in her own small room. They told her she could see the children on the morrow. Ostensibly she was there so they could treat her foot and her throat, but she heard the words ghoul and blight muttered under the healers breaths and knew they kept vigil on her. The benefit, however, had been when she'd woken panicked in the dark, someone had been there with light.

In the morning she awakened to the piercing stare of Solas standing over her cot. Oddly she wasn't frightened. Instead she found herself reaching out to him with a sense of protectiveness.“I dreamed of you.” She murmured and he nodded. “I know.” And with that cryptic remark he'd slipped away at the clattering arrival of Germaine.

“I came as quickly as I could my lady. I had to wait for them to release me from duty.” He nearly stuttered in his apologies. It made her smile. Even though his worship made her uncomfortable, he had been the first to treat her kindly. “I missed you, my friend.” He responded with an embarrassed smile, going to his knees before her.

“Oh please, don't do that.” She'd laughed and he frowned up at her. “What happened to your voice?” He asked, his inflection showing his readiness to destroy whatever had harmed her. Angelica sighed. “Nothing that time won't heal. How are you?”

Germaine's dangerous look turned sheepish. She opened her eyes wide. “Are you _blushing_?!” He hemmed a moment then looked up at her, turning even more red. “May I bring someone to speak with you?”

“So long as they aren't going to prostrate themselves before me.”

He nearly grinned but seemed to catch himself. “No guarantees my lady.” With that he went to the door and opened it just enough to let a tall woman slip through. From the touch of their hands as she passed him, it was clear their understanding was more than just a templar and a penitent. Angelica perked up as the woman came to stand near her cot before removing the light hood that had hidden her face.

It was Helisma. The brand still radiated across her forehead, but now her eyes were alive and burning with emotion. “Please don't...” Angelica's words were too late as the former tranquil did, indeed, prostrate herself before the cot.

“I can never repay you for what you've done for me. A gift I didn't even know I wanted and yet you...the Maker heard me.” Her voice was passionate and strong. It made Angelica wonder what kind of woman she was now. “It's okay, it was the Maker's will, not mine. Give thanks to him, and not me.” Angelica's husky mutter was taken in silence a moment before she continued. “How do you know Germaine?”

It was the mage's turn to blush. “He was the templar assigned to take me from the library. Did you not know?” How...interesting, Angelica thought as she shook her head. “I'm afraid I was taken away from there too quickly to realize.”

Germaine spoke up from near the door. “I've been assigned to her and any other.. uh..Hel, perhaps you should ask this next part.”

Hel? Angelica raised her brows at him but Helisma's firm words drew her attention back to her. Maker but this mage was likely to be a force to be reckoned with if the surety of her words was any indication.

“I have a friend, another tranquil. I believe he would want to be healed as well. Maker willing.”

Angelica swallowed. So far, it had never been her choice as to who or what was healed. Performance anxiety spread through her as she responded. “I...uh...okay. I can't guarantee it will be the Maker's will to heal him, but bring him here and we will see.”

Germaine opened the door again and a man walked through, looking around the room dispassionately. The starburst on his forehead instantly made her heart hurt. Ignoring the pain in her foot and her throat she stood.

“The Maker never meant for you to suffer this way. He loves you. You...you _must_ remember so that you can teach the world.” What did those words mean, she wondered as she reached to trace a finger over the terrible brand while his empty eyes followed her. And she loved him, gently and calmly and she touched him and his eyes widened as that love healed him.

He fell to his knees, wailing. But this time Helisma was the one who crouched beside him. “Clemence, it's alright. Soon this will pass and you will _feel_ again. You are whole.” And she and Germaine had lead the sobbing man from the small room.

That second day, they hadn't let Angelica see the children either. The excuse still her healing body although, other than her throat, the potions and magic they'd applied had left her feeling better than she had in a long time.

That night she awakened, shaking and sweating at the memory of twisted hands pawing, and the evil glow of inhuman, dead eyes. She despaired in that moment, that the memories would ever leave her.

The third day she'd been declared taint free and allowed to leave the infirmary. Of course, they hadn't said that in front of her but she could see it in the healers faces. Dorian, himself newly healed from his wounds on the battlements, had shown up to escort her.

“I must admit, I was overjoyed to hear that you had somehow lost those awful clothes in your adventures. I nearly had to burn my sheets, no offense.” At her protest he'd presented her with the finest dress she'd ever seen. “You will forgive me. You see, a lady mustn't go about naked. Gives the rabble the wrong idea.”

Her joy in the new clothing was dashed when she found out that she wouldn't be allowed to see the children, or her baby until the Inquisitor had returned to approve it. “One more day, lovely lady. Just one more day and I'm certain you will be gifted with the patter of little feet once again.” She glared at him, suspiciously. “He'll be back tomorrow?”

“That is what the spymaster says, and it's as much as my life is worth to disbelieve her.” And with that she allowed him to lead her to her 'temporary' quarters.

The day passed in hiding at first. Cloistered in her quarters she felt so very alone though the crowd clamored for her outside the door. Later in the day, one voice raised above the rest that drew her. The familiar love suffusing her enough to grant her courage to open the door and heal the twisted woman outside. And then the man behind her, praying with such faith. And then another, and another, and one she had to tell, sorrowing, that the Maker would not heal them, until the day was done and the crowd dispersed to their quarters or the taverns to whisper of the miracles of the Voice of the Maker.

Angelica lay on her bed that night, exhausted and finally alone in the room with the candle lit. She wished Varric were there. Void take it, she wished anyone were there in his absence. Every time she tried to close her eyes, unbidden the sense of hands clawing at her clothing, and a body dripping black blood above her.

She focused on the tiny flame with a desperate intensity. Perhaps if she believed in the light enough, it would defeat the darkness and allow her to sleep untroubled. She hadn't dreamed from the night on the mountain until after the hideous darkspawn had forced her to eat...her stomach twisted with the memory and she nearly retched. Why dreams now when she had so much more fodder for nightmares?

She couldn't bear one more moment alone with her thoughts. With a swiftness born of desperation she wrapped herself in her blanket and let herself out the door. After a moment of deliberation, she headed towards the outer walls of the keep. Guards would be there, and air...and stars.

She didn't know how long she walked those icy ramparts, but after a time the cold had her shivering so hard she could barely stand. She couldn't bear for the icy night to force her back to her darkened room. At the thought, she clung to the frosted stone. She couldn't do it. She…

Someone cried out. Their sobbing loud in her ears. She glanced at the guard nearby, could they not hear it?

The guard seemed oblivious. But she couldn't ignore such tremendous despair and went in search. Following her Maker-driven senses she made her way across the battlements.

There, through that entrance to one of the gate towers. It pulled her and, once again, trance-like she answered. Without knocking she opened the door and stepped through into the moonlit darkness.

“I know what you are! You will not fool me again!” The hoarse voice was her only warning before a tall figure slammed her back against the door, shutting it and effectively cutting off the revealing moonlight. “You think I am weak? I will show you, you have no power over me.” A sob caught his words and then his body pressed against hers.

The part of her mind that was still hers should have been screaming in fear as his hardened length moved against her thighs. But the other part of her, the part that loved so deeply, could feel the poisonous song running through his blood. If she could just...touch him.

He held her arms pinned to her sides, but her lips were free. “The Maker loves you. He can't bear you to be in torment.” She whispered through that divine love.

“Don't you DARE invoke the Maker! I will destroy you if you speak his name.” He hissed in rage even as his traitorous body moved against her.

“He loves you.” She said again, and then kissed him.

She felt the moment the lyrium left his blood as his lips froze against hers. Then with a cry he let go of her and staggered to the center of the room, collapsing to the floor in despair. “Oh Maker, what have I done!”

As her eyes were finally given a chance to acclimate to the darkness of the room she realized the man on the floor was the lion commander. Why hadn't she recognized him at first? As he buried his face in his hands, she also realized she'd never seen him without his armor. He seemed smaller without it. More human in the thin pants and shirt, barefoot, disheveled and hurting.

“I'm so sorry. I never...I would never hurt a woman like that. I thought…I thought you were...” The words poured out as if somehow they could stem the tide of horror emanating from him.

“I thought you were a demon. The withdrawal has had me so confused lately...I didn't know who you were. Oh Andraste forgive me.”

And she still loved. His healing required something more than the healing from lyrium. Something her human self could do better than the Maker's gift it told her. With the courage of knowing it's right-ness she asked a question she would never have dared before. “Have you ever lain with a woman?”

He stilled at her question, head low so she couldn't make out his expression in the darkness. Finally his answer came, soft and without hope. “No. How could I with this horror intruding on every intimate thought?” He sat back, leaning against the large desk with his eyes closed as if he couldn't watch her reaction to his words. “I was tortured by demons at Kinloch Circle. Made to live in my mind and body such deviancies, so many terrible sexual situations revolving around a woman I...admired.”

She approached him slowly, kneeling down before him. He jerked away, but the desk prevented any retreat. “I am afraid of what I may do,” he laughed without humor, “or _not_ do if I were to try to bed anyone.” Her voice was gentle as she responded. “Perhaps the reason these memories have such power over you, is that you have no true experiences to show what a lie they are.”

He opened his eyes at that. Watching her warily as new thoughts began to circle his mind. “What are you saying?”

She moved closer, reaching out to let a gentle finger trace his jaw. He froze at her touch, watching her like a starving man, hoping and afraid to hope. “I think perhaps if you had a good memory that was real, it would give you a weapon with which to fight the bad memories that are false.”

She leaned in and kissed him again. This time without the healing of the Maker but with the healing of the woman.

It took a moment for him to make the decision, but she could feel it when he did. His lips began to move against hers. Responding slowly at first, then with more and more fervency as the despair he'd felt transformed into need. One of his hands snaked into her hair, pulling her more firmly against him. Lips opened under hers, and feeling a heat at her core, she responded in kind. Deepening the kiss past the surface touch to tongues and teeth and motion.

His other hand moved to her hip, pulling her across the distance between them to rest between his bent legs and she could feel his readiness for this joining. Her own hand grazed that sensitive length and he gasped, pulling away from her to mutter against her cheek. “Are you sure? I can't...you have to be sure.”

Was she really sure? She hadn't been intimate with a man since Maxwell and the Chantry. She'd nearly been so with Varric in the dark, even though she still felt conflicted about his role in her imprisonment. Something that wouldn't have been fair to him, but she'd nearly done it anyway. She wasn't close to the Commander, but…he was warm, and now and he needed her. And, it seemed, she needed someone too in this one little moment. Perhaps they could drive out each others nightmares, just for tonight.

Perhaps the Maker had pressed this healing for both their sakes. Or perhaps it wasn't the Maker, but her own self.

“Yes, I'm sure.”

With that last barrier removed, suddenly she was at the center of a storm.

Teeth hungrily grazing the skin of her throat, hands bunching in the fabric of her shift, pinning her hips against his with the cloth. A desperate yank and the thin nightgown was off, over her head and discarded. Hands falling back down to trace her bared breasts. His lips moved in to capture her gasp in response to the sensual newness of the contact. Her gasp turned to a moan against his mouth as his fingers and palms teased her hardening nipples.

In the frenzy of motion she managed to slide her hands under his thin shirt. His skin was so warm! “Off!” She ordered against his mouth, pulling at the linen with her own growing desperation. Between the two of them they managed to get him as naked as she was, and she pressed in to trace the hardened muscle and faint ridges of scarring that crossed his chest with her own kisses. Running her hand down between his legs to tease and taunt him to heightened excitement.

With a growl (Maker, a growl!) he pulled her up against him, gripping her thigh with one hand, her back with the other. Skin to skin for the first time, he froze a moment. She could feel his heartbeat against her breasts, the clutch of his fingers against her thigh, hardened length pulsing in a barely restrained need pressed against her stomach. And his warm skin, all along her torso with that feeling of closeness, of intimacy, that nothing else could ever mimic. His voice sighed out, nearly silent. “It feels...different. Better.”

“What does?” She whispered against his neck, tracing with her tongue at that sensitive area where it joined his shoulder. He shuddered at the sensation, making his answer unsteady. “Your skin. Here against mine. They never...it never felt...” His hand slid down her back, giving her shivers of her own as it traced in exploration over the swell of her buttocks. This time his whisper sounded fierce with triumph.

“I can do this.”

His hands gripped her again, lifting her with a warrior's strength and laying her back on the discarded blanket behind her.

He levered himself over her, positioning himself between her legs and it was her turn to freeze. A flash of memory, a twisted form levering itself over her just so. Intent on the unspeakable.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, pushing in panic and he stopped. “What's wrong?” He asked, worried and confused. She couldn't speak, couldn't say it, couldn't breath for the fear.

Perhaps his own pain granted him understanding of hers because he nodded at whatever he read in her face. Maker bless him, he didn't ask her to explain further. Instead he rolled away from her, laying to one side and pulling her close to him in an embrace meant to comfort rather than tantalize.

“It's alright. You're safe here.” He murmured against her hair.

And that was how they stayed until she eventually drifted off into a restless sleep, safe in his embrace.

***

Maxwell fidgeted in the saddle as he crossed the bridge into Skyhold. The others trailed behind him in an exhausted caravan. That is, all the others but the Grey Warden, Alistair, who was acting unaccountably tense, urging his horse near the front of the small group.

The knife edged banter between the red haired warden and the Champion of Kirkwall had kept them all vastly entertained on the disheartened ride back from Crestwood and the horrors they'd discovered there. This tension, just as they were reaching safety and comfort seemed out of character.

Maybe he just didn't like being confined behind walls, Maxwell shrugged to himself. Regardless, he had other worries to ponder than one nervous warden.

Cullen's raven (or Leliana's that Cullen was borrowing, more likely) had brought the news that the Voice of the Maker lived and had been returned.

How cold that message had sounded, he grimaced as his horse finally crossed the last barrier and stopped, huffing in the courtyard. The Voice of the Maker was a person. A woman who lived and breathed and felt. Why hadn't Cullen referred to her by her name?

Angelica...it was like the thought had summoned her as she appeared in the throng that gathered to take the horses and welcome the travelers home. She was glaring up at him with those incredible eyes.

As he dismounted his gaze searched across her for some sign of the horror she'd likely been through as a captive of the darkspawn. But rather than horror, it seemed her hair was a richer brown than it had been last time he'd seen her. Her skin glowed somehow and those eyes... Those eyes had been what had drawn him to her all those months ago.

He was so focused on her that he paid no attention to the ring of steel behind him as he approached her.

“I'm glad to see you're alright. I...worried.” He managed to get the words out, stopping as close to her as propriety would allow.

“Why am I not allowed to see my own baby?” She demanded, anger in the lines of her body.

“Allow me to take you to her.” He smiled down into those shining, burning, angry eyes. So tempted to lean in just that little bit to silence her anger with a kiss.

“Move away from her!” He started and turned at the Warden's voice, colder and harder than he'd ever heard it.

Alistair stood behind him, sword drawn and, surprisingly, pointed at Angelica.

Maxwell's focus went battle sharp. Every detail imprinting on his mind. She was staring in shocked horror, not understanding the reason for the threat. Alistair's face twisted in a horrible fury. He intended to kill her, Maxwell had no doubt. The crowd moved back, away from the threat of bloodshed.

He drew his own sword and stepped protectively in front of her. “Explain yourself.” He demanded.

Alistair's weapon didn't drop, but he did answer. “She sings with the taint. Stronger than I have ever felt before, even during the blight.”

His eyes flickered up to Maxwell's, voice hissing in rage. “She sings like an _archdemon_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my longest chapter so far, but there was so much that needed to happen here, so I apologize, but not really. :p  
> Romance is so much more complex in life than it is in DAI. Seldom do we know right off who we will love or want to be with. While many of us are serial monogamists, even then there is sliding room at the beginning as we decide that, yes, this is the person we want to be true to. Or, no, this person I'm getting to know isn't who I thought they were. Ultimately, there will be only one (sorry, not cutting their heads off). But not yet. Our Herald doesn't know them well and has her own baggage to be dealt with along with theirs.
> 
> That said, romance options are Varric, Maxwell, Cullen and Alistair. If you don't vote (voting requested in a previous chapters notes) I will choose and you'll have to live with it. :D
> 
> Also, for those who would like to know: Translation of the elven used, in order.  
> (You will lose, my child)  
> (My time has come)  
> (I'm sorry, my child)  
> (Father, why have you come?)  
> (To bring the victory of the promised freedom to my children)  
> (I couldn't find you)  
> (Do not dwell in lands no longer yours)  
> (I don't want to kill you.)


	13. The Hideous Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loneliness and...friendship? And Alistair.

The Largest of the Mother's Children stepped out of the darkness of the rough tunnel and into the light, squinting into the glare of the sun on the snow.

As he took in the lonely vista he clutched the stone more tightly in his fist. His heart beat faster but he didn't know why. Perhaps it was because he was alone. He'd never been without others of his brood in his entire existence.

Alone-ness.

It wasn't a word so much as a sensation. And as that uncomfortable sensation built in the vista of the mountain landscape he hunched back into the mouth of the tunnel and consoled himself with turning the stone over in his clawed hands, watching the reflected light play on it's surface.

He'd never picked up a stone this small before. Instead, function had been the sole focus of anything taken in from any raid.

It had winked at him from the tunnel wall as he fled the Light. He'd found himself pausing long enough to pry it from the surrounding dirt and had taken it with him. It was smooth and rounded and felt comforting in his palm.

Now, in the bright light of the surface it glinted with bits of color and shine buried in the gray. He held it up in wonder. Turning it this way and that to admire the flash against his hand.

He had no word for pretty, but he knew how it made him feel. Why had he never noticed before how good such stone was?

It comforted him. Perhaps on his journey to find The Mother, he would find more of the good stones and bring them to her. Share their joy and their comfort with his twisted maker.

The thought heartened him and he crept back out into the sunshine.

 

He spent the next two nights wandering in a direction he vaguely thought may be the way back to the mother. The silence of isolation buzzing at the back of his mind bringing him nearly to desperation.

So, when he finally heard the distinctive cacophony of a human camp early on the third night, his heart nearly stopped beating in relief at the sound. Clutching the good stone to his monstrous chest, he let himself be pulled towards the noise.

His approach was cautious with the memory of all the humans he'd killed over all the years he'd been in existence (And how many years that was, even he did not know). Finally he peered out at them from the dubious shelter of a stand of trees.

They reminded him of the deep roads vermin that ran in packs in the dark. Moving, chattering, small and busy. One at the edge of their camp near him worked at something over one of their several fires. He found himself focusing on their actions with an unaccustomed curiosity. Why did he play with the rounded metal thing so? It wasn't useful as a weapon or protection.

His curiosity was rewarded a short time later when the smell of cooking food blew towards his hiding place. As the scent graced his nose he was surprised by the clenching of his stomach. He wanted whatever had created that smell! He had no understanding of 'hunger' but a new need for sustenance took control of his untainted body. He took a reluctant step towards the camp.

And then another, and another.

The first to see him was the male human at the fire. With a terrified shout (something The Largest of the Mother's Children had a great deal of experience with) the man fled towards the center of the camp.

Screaming ensued, and chaos and panic. He knew what came next. Armed men and women attacking in desperation to cover the retreat of the rest. So he did what any self respecting darkspawn feeling hunger for the first time would.

He grabbed the pot and fled with it before the swiftly approaching armed humans could reach him for an attack. As they made to give chase, he turned and roared at them with all the fury of the Hurlock General he had been. They cowered away, giving him time to escape with his longer legs.

Later, as he crouched in the shelter of a stone overhang and slurped at the half cooked stew, he felt a strange sense of accomplishment. This stuff of the humans tasted...he'd never really eaten before (other than the black blood he'd accidentally swallowed when trying to corrupt a female) and this was a revelation.

Even later, as he huddled against the rock turning the good stone in his hand to reflect the moonlight, he pondered (a new concept, pondering). He thought about food and how it made him feel (another new concept, feeling) and decided he liked it. He would take some from the humans again sometime soon.

 

The next night he realized he would need food again as his stomach clenched with it's emptiness. How often would he need to devour (eating being another new concept)? With no answer easily attainable, he stood and headed back in the direction of the humans.

When he reached the human camp, he made an unpleasant discovery. While he'd been sleeping the day away someone had attacked and destroyed them, looting and robbing and leaving only the dead to bear witness.

He wandered the silent camp. What he was searching for he didn't know. The huddled bodies bothered him, which left him puzzled. The death of humans had previously been something to spark he and his horde's dark version of joy, not this vague sorrow.

He didn't have an answer for himself and so continued his searching. Humans collected such strange items. He fingered the bright bits of metal and ceramic that were intermittently scattered near certain bodies. From their pose he imagined (imagination, another new thing) them defending the useless pieces and shook his head in puzzlement before discarding them back on the ground.

In one of the torn tents he found a large chunk of dried meat along with other strange smelling items that made him grimace in distaste. The meat tasted good, though, and he took it with him as he continued his search.

For a time he was content chewing the jerky while pawing through the various odd bits left behind for the dead. He pocketed a knife that had been hidden under the body of one of the dead men. And spent time entertaining himself swinging a shiny stone on a chain that had been clutched in a dead woman's hand. He even found a strange tiny effigy of a human being. It was soft, like their bodies and he found he enjoyed holding it. So he kept it as well, tucked into the bands on his armor with the good stone and the knife.

Eventually the silence began to harp on his mind. Loneliness singing nearly as loudly as the taint had used to, but less pleasantly. Building and building until he felt he would burst.

It made him angry, that he was denied the presence of his brothers. It made him frightened that he was denied the presence of the Mother. He lashed out at the camp. Smashing the rough tables and stools, ripping the tents, crushing even the remaining metal with his monster's strength, until finally he let loose a howl of sorrow that seemed to come from the depths of his newly found soul.

Something responded.

He fell into the well learned raiders silence. Crouching his bulk behind one of the ruined tents he moved towards the thin howl.

It came from the trees, he realized, gripping the knife he'd pulled from the body earlier as he cautiously approached. With a roar he lunged into the small clearing and pulled up short in surprise.

A human man lay propped against one of the trees. Alive, but just barely, panting in the pain that had prompted the howl. The Largest of the Mother's Children couldn't tell if it was one of 'his' humans (the emotional connection made no sense to him, but it was there nonetheless) or one of the attacking humans. He approached, knife poised to deliver the killing blow. And then the man laughed and spoke words he didn't understand.

“Well...at least “Killed by monstrous darkspawn” will sound better on the tombstone than “Slipped in shit while murdering refugees and was gutted by an old woman with a cooking knife.”

The Largest of the Mother's Children found himself lowering the blade. Now he understood why the death in the camp had bothered him. It meant he was alone again in this wilderness.

But now he wasn't alone. Now he had the human. With this new understanding he made a decision. He would keep the man for now.

 

The silence in the war room was uncomfortably complete as everyone absorbed the information they had just been given by the grey warden.

Angelica let her attention wander from face to face as she nervously awaited the verdict. Yet again, someone else seemed intent on making the decision whether she lived or died without any concern for her thoughts on the matter. Unlike how they responded to Maxwell.

Her eyes took in his commanding posture as he stood, hand on sword glaring at everyone over the huge table. She tried to visualize any of them just declaring that he should die. She had a vague understanding that that had, indeed, happened when he'd first come out of the breach, but she just couldn't imagine it in relation to this tall man at the center of everything.

Next to him, Commander Cullen stood like a sentinel, eyes unfocused to take in the entire room equally. That must have been something he'd learned in the templars she thought. Her slight movement in bringing her attention to him brought his eyes to focus on her as well for a moment before he colored slightly and looked away. She wondered if he felt awkward about her now?

She blushed a little herself. The whole situation was awkward. What in the Maker's earth had she been thinking last night? She'd woken up (barely a few hours ago now...time had passed so quickly this morning) laying in her new room wrapped in the blanket, her nightgown folded with military precision and laid at the edge of the bed. Somehow, she'd slept through being moved from his office to her quarters.

She could sense none of the lyrium poison in his blood now. At least she'd managed to heal that, whatever else may have (or have not) happened. She sighed and let her gaze travel to the next face.

Near him Leliana perched on the edge of the massive table, posture misleadingly relaxed. She was choosing to look at no one, instead playing one handed with the little metal pieces that lay scattered across the map that covered the bulk of the tabletop. Her other hand gripped something small enough that Angelica couldn't make out what it was. Of them all, she'd had the fewest questions for the warden, which Angelica hadn't expected.

Josephine's hawk like gaze scanned them all. Her expression made it clear that they would all _behave_ , or face the wrath of Antiva. Civil discussion or none at all. The confrontation that had taken place in the courtyard that morning had quickly escalated to the point where Maxwell and Alistair had traded blows when the warden had moved to run her through without sanction. Surprisingly, it had been the petite ambassador who had diffused the situation. Throwing herself without caution between the two combatants and hissing at them about the Chantry representatives gathering to watch the display. And so they'd all found themselves here in this intimidating room and away from prying eyes.

Her eyes finally came to rest on the final person in the room and she froze. He was staring back, watching her with an intensity that made it hard for her to breath. Alistair Theirin...she knew the name, there wasn't a Ferelden who didn't. One of the two wardens who had stopped the last blight. Bastard son of the king who had forsaken the throne for the sake of the people and their safety.

She'd been a child then, an orphaned peasant girl cloistered in the chantry. She remembered her child's fantasy about some impossibly romantic figure out of legend sweeping her off her feet and taking her to adventure with him across Ferelden. Fighting the blight and defending the world as the gossips said he and the Hero of Ferelden were doing then.

For a frivolous moment she tried to reconcile the two images. The tall, red headed hero, and the fierce and hardened man before her. Something of her thoughts must have shown in her face because the ferocity of his gaze was disrupted by a quirked eyebrow.

Why did that make her blush? The man wanted to kill her! Before she could examine her reaction more closely Maxwell spoke into the silence.

“So, you're saying that only a grey warden can slay an arch demon permanently?” Alistair withdrew his gaze from her to answer. “Yes, although it does have consequences.” He grimaced. “Save the world, die in hideous pain from the taint of the Old God you've taken into yourself.”

“It is what killed the Hero of Ferelden.” Leliana's voice was so soft Angelica could barely hear her. Alistair recoiled, his face growing unutterably sad. His voice matched hers for softness though as he responded. “In death, sacrifice. They aren't just words from a story.”

Silence fell another moment and then Maxwell broke in again. “Well, regardless of what you say you hear, Angelica is no arch demon. She has harmed exactly no one in the time she's been here. In fact, just the opposite as we've all stated.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, miracles and Maker's love and everybody gets a pony. But she is _tainted_. She is an _arch demon._ I don't know how or why, but it is as much as everybody's life in this entire _world_ is worth to ignore that and allow her to live.”

He stood and moved to loom over her (he actually was as tall as the hero she'd imagined as a girl, the thought ran unbidden through her mind). As both Cullen and Maxwell's hands went to their swords, he held his up into the air in a gesture of peace.

When they relaxed, he crouched down to look Angelica in the face where she sat in the only chair in the room. It felt as though he was speaking just to her with the intimacy he put into the next words. “Could you live with yourself if everyone in your country died to save the life of one woman?”

“Alistair, she is not the Hero of Ferelden to be sacrificed for our country, and she is not an arch demon to allow you to sacrifice yourself. Please, for the friendship we used to feel for one another, listen to what I have to say.”

Angelica suddenly could see the bard in the woman as Leliana's soft words pulled at her emotions. Alistair closed his eyes, still crouched, fists clenched on the arms of the chair to either side of her. This close she could see the internal struggle that played out on his face before he finally sighed, stood and answered.

“Do I at least get a pony?”

There was a smile in Leliana's voice as she answered. “We'll have to see if you're a good boy or not, yes?” The spy-mistress finally looked up into his face, her expression the most gentle Angelica had ever seen it. “Do you remember my dream?”

Alistair blinked a moment in surprise. Clearly, he hadn't expected that question.

Angelica surreptitiously glanced around to find everyone as focused on this puzzling conversation as she was.

“Yeees?” He responded, voice filled with suspicion. Leliana nodded and smiled at him. “Good. What if it wasn't about the blight? What if it was about now? What if the Maker truly spoke again through a rose as he had with me all those years ago?”

“That's a lot of 'what ifs'.”

She nodded. “I know. But what if it is true?” She finally stood and moved around the table to stand in front of him, taking his hand and placing the item she'd held so secretly in hers into his open palm.

It was a dried and shriveled white rose. Angelica knew that rose, somehow without doubt as if it had come from her own body. And perhaps it had as it had grown from the stones of the cold cell floor in Haven. Why had Leliana saved it?

Clearly Alistair understood something about it's significance to the red headed woman because his gaze sharpened as he looked from it to her. Leliana looked directly into his eyes as she continued speaking fervently.

“The Maker set this growing out of stone to show me his love and his will concerning this woman. I have heard his words through her, but more, I have felt his love in a way I haven't felt in so long. She is the Voice of the Maker, Alistair, and I have sworn myself to protect her for his sake. Whatever it is that is singing to you, it isn't an arch demon, but rather something sent by the Maker for his inscrutable purposes.” She reached up and gently touched his face. “She has saved me, my dear friend.”

“And you suppose she can save me, as well?” He smiled wryly down at the spy-mistress.

“The Maker can.” They all turned to stare in consternation. The words had come from Angelica.

She hadn't meant to say them, but she knew it was true. He hurt… much like the large darkspawn had hurt, and she knew her love could make that taint leave him.

“It was never supposed to be this way. A blessing tainted in my...in the Maker's name. But the corruption is not mine. Is not the Maker's.” She stood and reached out to touch him.

“Um, no. I'm afraid I need that right now.” He grabbed both her wrists and held her hands away from him. She felt the tears coming to her eyes as she looked into his. She _loved_ his broken heart. The unwavering strength of character. The young man who had lost everyone who was his compass. The sacrifices that had left him alone and with only purpose.

“The Maker loves you.” Her words were a whisper meant for his ears only as those tears began to course down her cheeks for the decade of pain he had suffered.

“Andraste's Ass!” He cursed under his breath. “Alright, alright. I won't kill you, if you won't, um, heal me.” He let go of her hands, stepping away and putting the table between them.

“But I will be watching you. Actually, with as loud as you sing, I won't be able to help it.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes, looking towards the others. “With as loud as she sings, every darkspawn within a hundred miles above or below the ground won't be able to help it.”

Angelica noticed as the impulse to heal faded, that Cullen and Leliana exchanged glances. 

Josephine was the one who spoke, however. "And that is a conversation to be had by the advisers and the Inquisitor...later." 

 

_In the darkness below The Mother wailed. Her largest, her hand in the earth was gone. Winked out like the light of the sun when she'd been brought below ground so very long ago. Her horde destroyed in the search for the Light._

“ _Don't despair,” the possessor whispered in her mind. “The Light has been found. And now it has been changed.” Yes, she answered in silence. She could feel it. The Light called to them all. And the hordes of the underworld would answer._

_And one day they would worship her as the one who had corrupted the Light and brought them freedom._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering where the former chapter 14 is, I've combined the two short chapters, 13 and 14 into one chapter. Chapter 13. :)


	14. Instrospection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the whirl of action, there had been no time for thought. In a quiet center in the eye of the storm, one can truly see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting. I blame the flu, and a tricky post production snafu that required my flu ridden producer/director self to try against all odds (and all dayquil) to focus. 
> 
> That said, ROMANCE VOTING IS NOW CLOSED. We have a winner... but I'm not going to tell you who it is. :D I want it to be a surprise.

Three days after they'd returned Varric finally came out of hiding.

It had become a comedy of errors as the many strands of his far flung web of connivery had stumbled over themselves trying to figure out where to report when they couldn't find him in the main hall.

The small arms dealer from Denerim had accidentally wandered into an exchange between two very nervous lyrium smugglers. That hadn't gone well.

Worse had been the redirected (pilfered) acquisition documents that had been left where Josephine could find them. He was pretty sure she had some nicely scented Antivan poison waiting to go into his drink later. Or perhaps it had been his deep cover spy who he'd finally found hours late engaged in a heated political debate in the tavern with The Iron Bull. He was fairly certain that he was now paying a double agent. He'd have to talk to Bull about subsidizing those funds.

The worst had been the newly acquired brothel madam (he'd bought it so he could stop the abuses that had been happening under the previous management) who had found her way into Cullen's office where he'd been debriefing the Commander on the events in the tunnel.

Okay, maybe that had been the best. The color of Curly's face when he'd realized what the woman was asking him had rivaled the Kirkwall sunset for brilliance.

The final straw had been Cole at the tavern last night. Varric had been numerous pints into a good bender when the blue eyed boy had drifted into the seat next to him.

“You think you will hurt her, but you're really afraid you'll hurt you.” He'd mumbled as he peered curiously into the frothy mug that Varric had pushed into his hands.

“Well kid, I think that's a surprise to no one. Cheers.” He'd clinked mugs with the confused boy and then drained his drink in one long, desperate swallow.

Cole had just continued looking into his own tankard as if wondering if it did, indeed, feel cheerful. It had made Varric laugh in his inebriated state. The laugh had died pretty quickly, though, when Cole spoke again.

“Darkness looming over her. Forcing, grasping...tainted tastes. If she closes her eyes, the dark will hurt her again. She knows it's not true, but her mind tells her it is. You helped her in the darkness. Why did you stop?”

“Kid, it's a lot more complicated than that.”

“It doesn't have to be.”

And there it was. A truth that Varric had really not wanted to hear.

“Aren't you the spirit of compassion? Why don't you go help her?”

“ _He_ won't let me.”

Wait. “He won't let you? Alright kid, I'll bite. Who is _he_?”

“She's out of the healers now. She's afraid. You should go to her or she'll find someone else to help.”

The thought had bothered him. The ability to feel jealous had been burned out of him years ago, so what was this thought? Worry? Concern someone else would harm rather than help? He'd stood at that point, ready to go play knight in shining armor… and had had to sit abruptly back down as the room had spun into a disorienting, drunken whirl.

Ah well, he'd never really looked good in shining armor anyway, he'd thought fuzzily.

That had been last night.

This morning, though, he took his usual place in the main hall. He heard the commotion and witnessed the confrontation in the courtyard from the safety of the stairs. He watched with clenched fists as they'd dragged Angelica off to the war room with a very angry grey warden. Her eyes met his for a brief moment as they hustled her past him.

There was no blame in them, which had unclenched a part of his heart he hadn't realized was afraid.

Hawke peeled off from the group gathered around the erstwhile combatants to join him at his table and together they watched the others march through the further door.

“So...from the look on your face, I'm assuming this is the 'special woman'?” Hawke's aptly hawk like gaze moved to Varric's face. Varric sighed.

“You don't know the half of it.”

“Well, looks like they'll be in there for a while. You're a storyteller. Tell me a story.” Then the frustrating man folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. Clearly, he wasn't going anywhere until he had the whole thing. Varric sighed again. Something he seemed to be doing a lot these days he reflected.

“Well, no shit, there I was, minding my own business back in Haven...”

 

 Angelica stood awkwardly in the center of the large room, shivering a little in a breeze from the open balcony. She had never been in such an ornate bedchamber before. It made her feel rather small and unimportant the way the high ceiling loomed above her and the mountain vista spread before her.

The fact that it was Maxwell's room also made the intimidation quotient increase dramatically. He'd brought her up here and told her he'd have the baby, _her_ baby, sent for. The infant had been staying in the nurses chambers while he'd been gone.

She glanced around, almost afraid to move from where he'd left her for fear of encroaching. Until she saw the cradle tucked in the corner by the wardrobe. Seeing it made her feel angry, which broke the spell of intimidation holding her in place.

She was _her_ baby, not Maxwell's. She hadn't lied to him, really. He just hadn't given her any chance to explain. In fact, he hadn't given her any chance to explain anything whatsoever. Instead he'd issued edicts and given orders. He'd even listened to other people about her, but had not yet given her a chance to speak for herself.

Anger granted her a certain bravery that was unnatural to her gentle and timid heart. She moved around the room, challenging her new found courage to run a tentative finger over the fine wood of the desk. It felt smooth and cool to her touch. She wondered how much it had cost… who had paid for it? The Inquisition? Maxwell himself? If she were to gouge her growing ire into it's fine surface, who would she be offending?

She was tired of being afraid. She was tired of being pushed from here to there. _Maker_ but she was TIRED of other people deciding whether she got to live or die or be happy or sad or... Even those who called her the Voice of the Maker seemed more intent on her function than her self. Was she even a human being to any of them? Was anyone? Or were they all just tools? Numbers on some sheet somewhere in someone's bid for power.

Gathering her growing frustration to her, she took a breath and did something she would never have dared before this moment. A small victory, but a victory none the less.

She sat in the big chair behind the big desk.

It was so odd...it made her feel like a queen. Books, artifacts, an inkwell and parchment that would have cost her a life's savings back in the chantry. It made her feel uncomfortable. False.

She'd seen the new Arl of Edgehall and his family pass once. Everyone had lined the streets in a parade as the noble family had moved by, waving grandly from their open carriage. She'd practiced that wave as a child, imagining herself an arlessa. A princess set to save the people with her grace.

She practiced it again now, sitting at the over large desk, waving regally at the past and her memories. The arl and his family she'd so admired that day had not been good people. Forcing service to rebuild the destroyed keep. Starving their servants so that the funds for their care could be turned to the opulence their Orlesian trained hearts felt so important. Her hand dropped to the desk as the fortifying anger began to fade.

So here she was. Sitting, for all intents and purposes, captive in a glorious room atop a tower waiting for her ex lover/captor to return with what he thought was their child. Even Varric wouldn't write that for being too ridiculously dramatic.

She was tired. She'd been tired for so long. In that exhaustion of spirit she'd been passive to the blows fate had been bringing her. The only thing feeling truly real had been holding that tiny body, that baby. That bit of redemption the Maker had given her.

And now Maxwell had taken even that from her.

No. If she were being honest, it wasn't just Maxwell. It was these situations that kept striking at her, darkspawn, chantry, wardens, the press of a needy humanity. All making her life a whirl of pain and threat that had been unsafe for an infant. She grimaced to herself. It made it unsafe for _her_ as well.

The Voice of the Maker they called her. It terrified her. That someone as irrelevant as she could have such a breathtaking responsibility to everyone.

Everyone… why should she be responsible for all those who seemed to so desperately need her? She froze there behind the desk as a new thought reared up to overwhelm her.

She loved them.

She loved them deeply and desperately. All of them. Good, evil, it didn't matter. She may not like them all, but she loved them.

They may not matter to those in power, all this press of humanity. They may not matter to each other, even. They may not matter in the scope of history, or the balance of good and evil that the mighty fought for.

They _mattered_ to her. Every. Single. One. The emotion was overwhelming. It rose up in a flood. A tidal wave of love.

She wept there, alone in the afternoon light at that desk that wasn't hers.

Huge racking sobs, for the pain and fear and loneliness and loss and joy and elation and desire and love and hate and everything that was this glorious, messy mass of living beings. Humans, dwarves, elves, spirits...darkspawn...everything that lived, lived in her heart in that moment.

“What's wrong?” Maxwell's concerned voice interrupted the thoughts flowing through her mind. She looked up to see him as he stood at the top of the stairs holding the baby. It was too much, she needed to share this understanding with someone.

“I love them.” Her voice was quiet and rough from weeping. He moved forward, confusion and concern vying in his expression.

“You love who?”

Her fists clenched on the desk in front of her with the power of her emotion. Her voice vehement and fierce with it.

“Everyone. I love everyone so...MUCH.”

A woman she hadn't noticed behind him, apron and cap declaring her Salvisa's nursemaid, fell to her knees and covered her face in fear. Maxwell just watched her in silence for a measure of heartbeats.

“Do you love me? Even after what I've done to you?”

“I do love you.” And she did love him, so much. But that hurt human being nearly buried under the overwhelming love spoke too. “But I also hate you.”

He nodded nearly imperceptibly at her words. Hands gripping the blanketed infant a bit more tightly.

“Well, I love you. For what that is worth.”

Then he stepped forward to offer her what was, according to the tenderness of his expression, the largest gift he could give. He placed the baby she needed so very much into her arms.

 

 Alistair paced the battlements in an unseeing circuit, his mind churning with dire thoughts.

Regardless of what they'd said, he knew in a way they clearly didn't the danger they were in. Whether she bore an old god's soul or not, was irrelevant. She sang, and they would answer. Hordes and hordes of the vicious, tainted monsters. And they wouldn't stop until she was dead.

In every functional way, they were bringing another blight upon themselves. She may not direct them, may not purposefully call them, but they would come for her. The darkspawn would cover and taint all of Thedas in their quest to find that song. Turning their world into a blighted desert, devoid of life.

And this just as every grey warden in Ferelden and Orlais had disappeared under some false calling sent by Corypheus.

The timing was too convenient. Too dangerous to be accidental.

And yet, when he'd held her arms and looked into her eyes, she'd _wept_ for him. There had been no air of falsehood to her tears or her whispered words. “The Maker loves you.”

Those eyes. Her eyes had bored right into his soul for that moment, and had loved him. He'd almost fallen into them and that precious emotion that had died for him at the top of Fort Drakon all those years ago.

He rubbed a weary hand over his face.

Andraste help him, she had loved him with the Maker's love and he would have to kill her.

Not yet, he had told the Inquisitor he wouldn't. But eventually they'd see the cost of keeping her alive.

He just hoped that by that time, it wouldn't be too late.

And that he could bring himself to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should explain some of the emotion of this piece. That love for humanity that is overwhelming and undirected, I feel that frequently. It's not a romantic love or a love for a child or a friend. It's not associated with 'liking' someone.
> 
> I don't know where it comes from or why I feel it but it is powerful. It makes me cry in the dark as I read of someone elses internal pain, even if I don't know them. It makes me angry for those who are being abused in any fashion. It makes me sorrow for the abusers who are harming themselves through their harm of others. I don't think I'm the only person who feels this. I think the bulk of the good in the world is done by people who feel the same. And yet, so often this amazing emotion is disregarded or hidden for the more personal emotions of romance, lust and joy.
> 
> That is what makes Angelica special. Not just that she can heal, but that she can honestly love without it being dependent upon someone else's actions or worthiness. And that is a powerful gift all by itself.


	15. Triangles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric learns a secret and Maxwell makes a move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in chapter updates. I've been travelling a lot this last month for post production stuff. Back on track now though! This chapter is short, I know (banged out while on the road) but the next several won't be. Lots of good story to go! Next chapter some more action.
> 
> And thank you so very much for reading! You have no idea how much it means to me.

“Ser.” The soft voice broke Varric from his reverie. He was seated at his usual table writing. Well, supposedly writing. The truth was less actual writing and more actual pondering really. Damn Hawke and his probing questions anyway. 

He turned to the soft voice, removing his small glasses. A poorly dressed young woman stood shifting from foot to foot and glancing nervously at the few nicely dressed people near them. He stiffened, years of dealing with the most wanted fortunately muting his reaction to be unnoticeable to all but most perceptive.

It was the agent he'd set back in Haven to find information on Angelica. 

“Well hello Maddy. I haven't seen you since Haven. Have a seat, tell old Uncle Varric how you've been.” He scooted aside on the bench. “Does that make you my wicked uncle?” Her eyes laughed as she slipped in next to him. 

“You wound me.” He laughed back as he arranged the various papers around him to hide the writing they would be exchanging. It would be in code, yes, but still…a rogue couldn't be too careful. 

An hour later, Varric had fallen silent while Maddy chattered on about the inconsequential. The news she'd shared had painted a rudimentary timeline of events. She'd managed to trace Angelica's journey to it's start at Redcliffe, which jibed with Maxwell's story. Although there had been no official word of his claim to the bastard daughter there. She'd left there heading for a promised job in Haven, but had been injured in the outbreak of fighting at the crossroads, stabbed through the stomach. A mortal injury but through the luck of the Maker she'd survived. Her baby had not been so fortunate.

From there it had been simple to trace the last of her flight to Haven and the job at the laundry. She'd clearly been nothing but an unfortunate statistic. Another injured and mistreated peasant until sometime after she'd reached Haven. No stories of healings, or impossibly growing roses, or the Makers love until that strange morning he'd been part of in the healers tent. 

To all intents and purposes, he'd witnessed the first miracle of a disoriented and freezing prophetess. He wasn't really sure how that made him feel yet. Maddy had spoken in awe as she recounted a scene she'd witnessed at the laundry. Even his irreverent and disrespectful operative had a small case of worship going on. 

And now another moral quandary...of course. Angelica seemed gifted in presenting him with those. The Princess wasn't Maxwell's baby. Information that could have impact… or value in the right hands. 

A stir ran through the hall as the Inquisitor's door at the end opened. Varric's eyes followed the rest as Maddy fell silent next to him. 

Angelic, holding the infant in question stepped through, followed closely by the General. He surreptitiously watched her react to the crowd and the crowd to her. As her nervous eyes lit up when they reached him he realized that he held something precious and dangerous. “Ah shit, something else I can't put in the damn book.”

Right now she was under the protection of the Inquisition. Perhaps only because Maxwell believed the infant his. Varric's information could be a ready weapon in the hands of those who would become hers or Maxwell's enemies. Information that could destroy her.

It would take a rapscallion of high caliber to truly cover it up. Fortunately, he WAS a rapscallion of that caliber. “Maddy, how would you like to earn a bit more?”

Xxxx

Angelica felt as though every eye in the main hall of Skyhold turned to her as Maxwell ushered her and the infant out of his quarters, a possessive hand resting lightly on her back. An overly reverent nurse following in their wake. His body language was clear and she noted the few unmasked faces drinking in supposition as to what it meant. The masked faces...they were vaguely threatening in their lack of expression as they also turned to absorb the sight of the Inquisitor escorting a woman from his quarters. 

And not just any woman. The whispering that echoed off the stone walls made it clear they knew who she was. “The Voice of the Maker and the Herald of Andraste?” “Do you suppose?” “Lovers, clearly.” “So romantic.” “Healed Tristan yesterday.” Their words made her deeply uncomfortable. The words that followed, hidden like poison among the others made her even more uncomfortable. “Archdemon I heard.” “Do you think it's a spell?” “Responsible for the darkspawn attack.”

She leaned a moment back into the firmness of Maxwell's touch as he guided her towards the other end of the long room. Conflicting emotions playing through her as she clutched Salvisa closer to her body. Safety held up in comparison to freedom. 

And then she saw Varric speaking quietly to a young girl she recognized from the laundry. As they drew nearer the young girl gave her a cocky smile and slipped away. Varric turned towards her and grinned. Why did her heart feel suddenly lighter?

A friend. She had friends. She wouldn't need to falsely trade her safety for a pretense at romance. With a gentle smile over her shoulder, Angelica stepped away from Maxwell's touch. I am my own woman and not his, she hoped her actions spoke. If Varric's raised brows indicated anything he, at least, had understood the message. 

To her relief, before Maxwell could reach for her again a hooded runner approached. “Your Worship, the Lady Ambassador requests your presence in the War Room. She stated it was most urgent.” Maxwell uttered a frustrated growl. “I've just spent all morning in the War Room. What could she possibly need to speak to me about now?” The runner shrugged and Maxwell sighed, turning to face her and the baby. “I'd hoped to spend some time with the two most beautiful ladies in Skyhold. I-” He fell silent, his expression conflicted.

She noticed that the entire assemblage watched breathlessly when he leaned in and kissed the baby. She joined them in breathlessness as he leaned further in and kissed her. A light brush of the lips, almost nothing. But the gasp of delight from the crowd made it clear it wouldn't stay almost nothing in their gossip. 

Maxwell moved that faint kiss to her cheek where he could whisper in her ear. “I will fight to conquer your heart again. To keep both of my ladies safe.” When he pulled back, his smile was almost sad. “And I always win my battles.” And with those worrisome words he turned and left.

Angelica stood there, frozen, watching his straight back as he made his purposeful way through the room. What on earth had prompted him to do that? If he'd loved her before he wouldn't have left her to the torment of abandonment, injury and loss. How could he love her now? He'd seen her all of a handful of times since that fateful morning just over a week ago. 

How did she handle something like this? She was Chantry raised. They didn't field classes on the finer points of dealing with ex lovers. 

Varric's overly cheerful voice interrupted her troubling thoughts. “Well, the General certainly doesn't waste time on indecision.”

She glanced over at him, noting that his smile was belied by the spark of something darker in his eyes. As if noting her note his reaction he looked away, pausing before reaching under the table where he sat. 

“Hey Frosty! Would you care to help me feed the ravening beasts?” He held up a bag with a doll perched in it's open flap. He'd remembered! Her heart lightened exponentially with the thought of seeing the children. 

“OH YES! Thank you.” He took her arm and threaded it through his in a much more gentle parody of the first time they'd met. “This way Frosty lady. Oh, nice dress by the way. So egregiously tasteful it must be Dorian?”

She laughed. Maker it felt good to laugh. “Yes, Dorian.”


	16. Touching Moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last part of a busy day of revelations for everyone.

Cullen had been at the battlements for an hour now, he was fairly certain. He loved the view and the fresh wind up here, but this time he hadn't really seen it, lost as he was in troubling thoughts

“Well Commander, we have quite the task on our hands it seems.” A tense Orlesian voice broke his reverie.

He turned a moment to glance at the familiar hooded woman. “Leliana.” He acknowledged before turning back to the vista. “That we do. One I've been pondering for a time now.”

He could feel her nod as she moved to lean against the stone next to him. They stood in silence for a time before he decided the words warring within him should be shared. “Are we certain that it is a task that should be taken on?” Which task he didn't have time to clarify before she interrupted.

“What alternative do we have? To turn the Voice of the Maker himself out into the world to be destroyed?” Her voice rose in an unaccustomed bit of passion and he found himself reaching out to take her hand in a calming gesture. A stray thought darted through his mind, distracting him from her words. His hand was gauntleted and hers was gloved, both items creating a physical distance that would likely prove less than calming.

“Yes, I am aware that she poses a risk for all within Skyhold while she is here. We must just be careful and diligent in the protections we put in place.” Leliana continued speaking, answering questions he wasn't asking. He'd never seen the spymaster this fiery. Usually she was controlled to the point of icy coldness. “And the people outside of Skyhold, I know they are at risk, but isn't any risk worth the guidance of the maker?”

She turned to him, but he didn't see her expression focused as he was on their connected hands. “The risk is worth it. I know it is. You believe it too, do you not?”

He could answer. He knew what he believed, the lyrium no longer burning through his veins because of the Voice of the Maker's touch (kiss, actually, but it had fulfilled the same purpose). But as he finally looked up into the spymistress' face, the unaccustomed vulnerability he found there prompted him to a different action.

Letting go her hand for a moment he removed his gauntlet, laying it across the battlement. As she watched, puzzled, he took her unresisting hand in his and removed her glove, curling his bared palm around her smaller one.

He could feel her confusion in the stiffness of her fingers. Confusion at his silence and at the strangeness of his action.

He could also feel connection.

Armed and armored in nearly every public situation, Cullen realized touch had been something he ached for without knowing it. He found himself wondering if it was the same these days for her. As he silently held her hand, he realized she was as physically and emotionally armored these days as he had been.

The blond warrior smiled into her eyes and could feel her hand relax in his. Perhaps touch was a gift for them both.

“It is worth it.” He finally answered. But which internal question, he wasn't certain.

Xxxx

“ANGELICA!” The shout was nearly simultaneous from the five young throats as they launched themselves at her. The mob of youthful joy slowed as it drew nearer to her, however. Stopping just short of engulfing the human woman and her dwarven escort. Varric opened his mouth for a humorous quip, but the lost look in the eyes of the children as they approached prompted him to silence.

He hadn't really considered their reaction to her being taken and then returned but kept from them without explanation. He should have come to them during the last four days to let them know she was alright. He should have remembered them.

“We thought you'd never come back!” Marny's seven year old face twisted as she attempted to tamp down her emotions. The other kids watched her with a sadly adult understanding, Bursa with her fingers jammed into her mouth. As the six sets of eyes swiveled back to Angelica, Varric stepped back, relinquishing her arm and her attention.

“I will always come back. I made that promise and I will keep it.” She stretched out her free arm and Marny abandoned her attempt at stoicism and threw herself sobbing into Angelica's embrace. As if the last barrier had fallen, Bursa, Targan and Bredan rushed to cling to her dress. The relieved fear of abandonment bringing a rush of tears from all three.

Behind them, Marric stood bravely, face stern in his attempt to be stronger than the other children. Varric caught his eye as Angelica murmured gentle reassurances to the weeping little ones clustered against her. A nod of understanding, man to young man and Marric straightened. He would be the defender of these little ones, Varric could see it in the pride that replaced the sternness in the boys face.

He reminded him of himself honestly. Even to the foolish sense of noblesse oblige, the desire to protect those around him. “Ah boy,” he muttered to himself as he pondered the young man. “You're in for a wild ride.”

A thought made him pause. Marric was young, but he'd had younger agents in his employ. Perhaps it was time for the dwarven rogue and the human boy to have a private conversation. With the amount of trouble Angelica was consistently drawing to herself and those around her, someone with the goal and the resources to not only keep him informed of the children's well being, but actively protect them when needed wasn't a bad idea.

Varric's thoughts were interrupted by a tug on his sleeve. The wide, tear reddened eyes of Bursa looked up at him expectantly. “Well, hello Rosebud,” were the only words he managed to get out before the girl's tiny voice cut him off. “Did you bring my dolly? You promised.”

A short time later the younger children huddled together over the small stick city they were building for the dolls each of them clutched. At a distance designed to keep troubling talk from their ears, Varric, Angelica and Marric consulted, the latter's thin chest puffed out a little at being considered one of the adults.

“Where are Arn and Leesa?” Angelica asked as she transferred the now-wriggling infant to Varric's waiting arms. “Hello princess.” He cooed as he took the gurgling bundle. The back of his mind working on the issue of protecting the information he had about the baby while the front focused on Marric's response.

“Arn got made a _squire_! They moved him into the templar quarters and gave him a _real sword_!” Varric noticed Angelica's smile falter.

“The templars? Why...” Her voice fell silent as Marric's face grew serious. “It was cause of Leesa. When that big darkspawn grabbed you, she went crazy trying to get up there. The guards grabbed her to stop her and...” He looked between the two adults and Varric's heart sank. That body language was one of mourning. Had the girl died?

“And?” Angelica's voice had gone low and afraid. Marric's answer was also low, pitched so the other children wouldn't hear. “She made magic. Hit the whole top of the rampart with fire. She...we all were afraid she'd burned you up but you and the monster had gone inside by then. The guards almost killed her right there, but that Tevinter fella had fallen off into the garden and he stopped them.”

The boy paused to gauge the effect his words had on the two adults. Angelica looked stunned, but Varric smiled encouragingly to him. With the encouragement, Marric continued.

“After things calmed down, some robed people took her away, even though Arn argued with them for her. Seeing as she can't talk at all.” He looked to Varric. Clearly expecting the man to understand. “Arn said they took her off to be a mage and that mages could be hurt by templars so he decided to go be a templar to protect her.” He puffed his thin chest out in pride. “He left me in charge of the others as the next oldest. Said I was a man now.” Varric nodded. He could use this. “Well, Champ, I believe you are.”

Xxxx

Alistair still stood in the cold wind on the battlements, hand cramped from gripping his sword harder than was comfortable.

He could feel her behind him. Her song pulled at the center of his soul every time she moved through the castle until it was all he could do not to run to her. Once he got there, would he have the strength to ever walk away, or would he throw himself at her feet and beg her to let him serve? Or worse, would he behave as the darkspawn and… the thought didn't bear following to it's end.

At least her song drowned out the itch in his skin that was the false calling. Thank the Maker for small favors? Or was that too close to truth to be humorous? With a tired sigh he forced himself to let loose of the pommel, flexing fingers nearly gone numb from the desperation of his grip.

His reverie faltered when Hawke slipped up and lounged against the stone next to him with a carefree air that contrasted strongly with the red haired warden's tenseness. Or the situation they were all in, Alistair thought to himself, with a grimace.

“Better take in all the snow you can get. By this time next week we'll be knee deep in sand.”

“My love of sand is only tempered by my love of unrelieved, blazing sun. I think I may just dance for joy.” Alistair's grimace grew more pronounced. “I take it they've told the Inquisitor about the news from the Western Approach?”

Hawke nodded, white grin flashing through his dark beard. “I wonder if they'll let us ride nude.”

Alistair snorted, grinning in spite of himself. “Only if you want sand in...ur...everywhere.”

The other man flashed a lascivious wink. “It may just be a fetish of mine. Well actually, watching you ride nude would be a great deal more fun.”

The armed and armored warden turned red in spite of himself. “You'd think after all these years, I'd be used to your abysmal humor.”

“Well, you'll have plenty of time on the road to become hardened to my charms. We leave in the morning.” And with a last waggle of his eyebrows, the dark man sauntered away, leaving the ginger man alone.

Alone...he sighed as the blasted singing intruded into his consciousness again. He should check with the Commander to make sure there were adequate protections in place for the risk she posed while they were gone.

Xxxx

Maxwell was hiding. Something he seldom did, but after this day of uncomfortable revelations, confrontations and choices, he needed some time out of the public eye.

This last meeting with the advisers had been especially stressful. Several hours of pouring over options, the loss of the grey wardens right when darkspawn and a loving, brown eyed archdemon posed a threat possibly greater than Corypheus himself. The threats of the Chantry over her on top of their fear of the rise of the Inquisition. The new information from the Western Approach and the threat of blood magic and an army of demons.

Threats upon threats.

Josephine had been the one to really lay out what keeping Angelica alive meant. His heart had rebelled utterly at the thought of killing her for the sake of some distant danger of darkspawn. Fortunately, he hadn't had to show his weakness for his former lover openly as the other two advisers had adamantly spoken in her defense. Finally Cullen had stomped out claiming headache with Leliana leaving swiftly behind him. After their exit the ambassador had cornered him to discuss the disposition of the Voice of the Maker while they were gone to try and save the wardens.

He sighed, breath ruffling the leaves of the greenery that kept him from the view of the others wandering the gardens. He'd done the best he could trying to provide for her safety and yet still give her the option to be with their daughter. She wasn't going to be happy about it though.

At least at first. Somewhere inside he still maintained a hope that they would be able to rekindle what they'd had before. That he would be able to make sufficient amends to receive forgiveness, and then perhaps love.

His moment of introspection was broken through recognition of the voices passing his hiding place. He moved to reveal himself, eavesdropping not being a tactic he embraced...but the subject made him pause.

Varric's voice, “So, how are you sleeping these days?” The careful tone of his words indicated something more than a passing interest. So did the long pause before Angelica answered.

“Not well. I...uh…um…just, not well.” Angelica's voice indicated so many things to one who knew her as well as he did. Fear, unsurety...shame?

He couldn't help himself, he peeked as they moved past hoping to get a glimpse of their expressions before they were too far away.

Angelica held the sleeping infant, looking down at Salvisa in what seemed an attempt not to look at Varric. Varric on the other hand was looking closely at her, perhaps trying to determine what her words meant just as he was.

He could almost have cheered when Varric stopped her before they'd walked beyond range of his limited view. “Well, Frosty, a night light would probably help.”

For some reason, she blushed at that innocuous phrase. “When I was in the infirmary it seemed alright. I thought it was the torches there, but when I was alone last night, the light wasn't...enough.”

She stopped and turned to the dwarf with a gaze pleading for understanding. “Every time I close my eyes in the dark it's like I'm back there. Being pawed at by...terrible things. Being touched and forced to...” She shuddered as she spoke. “I couldn't take it. I went out and-”

The blush faded from her cheeks, leaving her seeming pale and ashamed. “I spent the night with someone I barely know. I've never done such a thing before. But I couldn't stand to be alone in the dark. Do you think I'm awful?”

She'd slept with someone? For some reason the idea made his blood boil. He would find out who it was who had taken advantage of a vulnerable woman and he would…

Varric interrupted his thoughts with an almost bitter laugh. “Frosty, if anyone was awful last night it was me for leaving you to suffer through this by yourself.” The dwarf reached up and touched her face. A lovers touch, it looked like to Maxwell as his hands clenched into fists.

“You know, my blanket is big enough for both of us.”

The look of relief on her face had Maxwell striding out of the bushes before he realized he'd done so.

“I'm sorry, but she won't be spending the night with anyone. For the safety of Skyhold and herself Angelica is confined to the Inquisitor's quarters until further notice.”

“What?! No! I will not stay in your quarters with you.” Her voice rose enough to draw the gaze of several nearby courtiers.

He held her angry gaze with a pleading one, answering her loud words with soft ones. To his relief, the courtiers turned their curious gaze away from them at the drop in tone.

“It's for you that I do this. They are the safest rooms in Skyhold if darkspawn attack and the only place you can have full access to the child. Think of her safety, if not your own. I am not willing to put her at risk of such an attack as the last one.” He touched her cheek, unconsciously mimicking Varric's earlier gesture. “And I truly don't want you to be hurt again in such a way.”

She fell silent, eyes wide and betrayed. He would help her see that this would be a good thing. He had to believe it. It had been the best he could do to keep her alive and safe while he was gone. And perhaps eventually she would come to enjoy their proximity.

He glanced away from her accusing gaze and met Varric's challenging one. Well, if there was to be a challenge, the dwarf would lose.

“We leave in the morning for the Western Approach, Varric. You'll be accompanying me. You have tonight to prepare yourself.”

Then with a gesture that indicated the end of negotiation, Maxwell wrapped a tender arm around her shoulders. Ignoring the way they tensed under his touch he escorted her and the infant from the garden. Neither of them hearing Varric's muttered words as they passed out of sight.

“Well General, this story is about to have a plot twist. I hope you're ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay once again. My children's grandfather died unexpectedly, the week before my youngest daughter's wedding. He was my children's best male role model and someone who was very dear to us. It will be a while before our mourning lessens at his loss. My daughter's wedding is a happy thing, but also harbinger of her immigration to the UK (where her husband lives and is in the military). Lots of emotional upheaval. Lots of back and forth trying to both comfort and celebrate. 
> 
> Then immediately after the back and forth and emotional upheaval of those few weeks time, I was a guest at a science fiction convention. A rather busy guest it turned out with the number of panels I spoke on. A great deal of fun, but also not conducive to my ability to write. 
> 
> I am really really glad May is over.


	17. Taking Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Largest of the Mother's Children gets a new name, and that which is precious is taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be all action!

“Hey, don't eat that.”

The laconic voice made The Largest of the Mother's Children look away from the plant he had become enamored with to focus on the speaker.

The human had been steadily healing during the time they had been together. Now he was standing (albeit a bit unsteadily) at the opening of the rough cave they had been sheltering in while he recovered from the slow move down the mountain.

“It's a flower. Big guy like you shouldn't be playing with flowers.”

The hulking darkspawn tilted his head in the questioning gesture he'd learned during their time together. He understood a few human words. Unfortunately, the man wasn't saying any of those ones.

The human man shook his head and grimaced. “If only Maker-be-damned Ferdy could see this. He'd piss himself in surprise.” The human's tone sounded unworried so The Largest of the Mother's Children turned back to his study of the delicate purple blossom. With a grumble the human limped over and crouched opposite his hulking keeper.

“Flower...flooooowwweer. You smell it, you don't play with it.” He leaned in and sniffed at the bloom then settled back, gesturing at his larger companion to try it. With as puzzled a look as his twisted face could conjure, the hurlock leaned in and sniffed the blossom himself. He'd seen them, of course. But he'd never before cared what they were or what they did.

The scent! His milky eyes opened in surprise as the delicate perfume graced his flattened nostrils. He leaned back and touched the soft petals with a much gentler hand this time. “See, there you go.” In a warily playful gesture the man poked at his huge chest. “Flower.”

“Hloowa.”

“No my big friend.” The statement made no sense to him and he began to fidget in agitation. Perhaps the human was trying to say they couldn't be friends?

 _No_ and _Friend_ were two of the few words he understood. Simon (the human man had taught him the concept of names two days before) had been steadily trying to communicate, almost as if he couldn't bear to be without it.

The Largest of the Mother's Children could understand that alone-ness without connection to others so he allowed the speech lessons. 'No' had come first when the darkspawn had tried to feed the human the rotting flesh of the dead men in the old camp. The vehemence of that lesson had impressed it upon him fairly quickly. Friend had been more ephemeral a concept and so much more difficult to understand. It seemed to mean companion but with some other concept attached.

For some reason, this made The Largest of the Mother's Children feel distressed.

“Hriend?” He gestured questioningly between the two of them. He didn't understand the fleeting expression that crossed Simon's face but he did understand the smile and nod that came after it.

“Yes, yes we're friends. But _this_ is called a _flower_. Something you'll have to understand if you want to woo the ladies. F.L.O.W.E.R.” And again he pointed at the former tainted. “Now try it again. Fllloooowwweeer.”

The Largest of the Mother's Children pointed to himself and said it again this time, very carefully. “Ffhlowwer.”

Simon began doing that strange sound that he'd realized indicated enjoyment.

“Flower?! BWAHAHAHA...Well, I guess it's as good a name as any.” The ragged man started to lean back on his elbows, but wincing at the pain decided against it. “And I'll be the richest man in the world with his talking darkspawn that is coincidentally the worlds largest Flower.”

The Largest of the Mother's Children didn't know why the approval in the human's voice made him feel good. It just did, and that was enough for him to understand right then.

Xxxx

  
  
Josephine wiped tired eyes with her free hand.

The Inquisitor had been gone only two days and already the Chantry representatives had turned into baying wolves at her door. Yesterday Leliana had been able to deter their worst encroachments with her “glare of doom”, but today those savvy clerics had grown wise and slipped into the Antivan's office when Leliana was otherwise occupied. That they even knew that the spymistress was otherwise occupied didn't bode well for Leliana's temper when she found out they'd been spying on her without her discovery of it.

“Truly Ambassador, you must see the reason in our request.” The speaker, Mother Mariette, smiled kindly from her red robes (Josephine could swear she must have dyed it in the blood of innocents) and tall hat. The aging cleric had the smile of an angel and the eyes of a tormented general, the Antivan thought as the woman continued her attempt at persuasion. “Someone who is the Voice of the Maker should have no reason to fear the questioning of the Chantry. If she truly is what she claims, then you and she have no reason to deny our request. In fact, it would benefit all around. Imagine, the Voice of the Maker working through the Chantry for the souls of the world.”

Ah yes, a worthy opponent for one less skilled in the game than herself, Josephine thought as she put on her own angelic smile and responded.

“I will say it once again, she does not claim to be the Voice of the Maker. That title was given to her by those who have witnessed her miracles. And there are many, many witnesses.” Truly, her ability to control herself was masterful, Josephine thought as she sat wearily at her desk, maintaining the smile and letting just the tiniest bit of steel show in her eyes. She wanted to throttle them for fools. She'd repeated that assertion probably a hundred times over the last two days, and yet somehow they could not accept the truth.

As if her (outward) patience was the last straw for theirs, the younger of the two representatives, Mother Beate angrily cut off the calm rebuttal that Mother Mariette was likely preparing to speak.

“There are no such things as miracles ambassador. You know this. The Maker has abandoned his children and claiming differently is blasphemy.” This woman was younger than the main representative and had been silent until this point. She studied the speaker as the woman spoke. She was angry, clearly, and perhaps afraid.

What was it that made her afraid? Further erosion of the Chantry's power? Threats from the Grand Clerics if they did not succeed? Or fear at the thought of the Maker actually being real?

“This woman, this Voice of the Maker,” the younger cleric's voice held enough scorn to wither an orchard, “She is a charlatan, a liar and her false claims threaten the faith and stability of all of Thedas. She must be released to our custody to face the testing of the Chantry so that all may see the truth.”

“Must? I'm afraid the Inquisition does not recognize your authority to make such demands.” In that moment Josephine decided she'd reached the end of her patience and her gaze turned icy.

“You are a fool if you do not! The Chantry's arm is long and those who take the name of the Maker in vain will not escape it!” Mother Beate spoke hotly as Mariette put a calming hand on her arm. A glance between the two and the younger nodded and fell silent.

“And you are both fools if you believe you can threaten a member of the Inquisition with impunity. I believe our audience is at an end, Revered Mothers. I suggest strongly that you both leave Skyhold before morning tomorrow. I would hate for those who love her to find out that you threaten the woman who has done so much for them.”

The older woman straightened. Clearly an experienced player of the game, her gentle smile did not waver with her parting words, for all their poison.

“You are behaving the fool, Ambassador, and I know you are not one. Which means you have a deeper game at hand. I am not worried. The Maker's justice will prevail.”

With those words the women departed.

“Braska” Josephine cursed as she slammed her note board on the desk. The Chantry had something planned. These annoying confrontations were clearly nothing but cover. She needed to warn Leliana and Cullen...and perhaps Angelica herself.

Xxxx

 

“So, my pretty wench, how could you ever resist such charms as mine?”

“Oh sir, you must release me. My heart belongs to another and will never be yours!”

Simon was bored. Bored to tears, bored to death...bored to the point of creating bad melodrama out of the stones that littered their rough encampment.

“Flower” (Andraste's tits, he'd never stop being amused by that name) had left the still-healing man alone and gone to hunt food for the both of them. And unfortunately, giving him time to think...something he didn't particularly care for.

The ragged human hefted the stone on which he'd scraped a rudimentary mustache and used it to carve a circle in the dirt around a second, smaller stone with blood stains for rouge poorly indicating the female of the piece. “A saucy minx indeed, I will never release you until your heart is mine alone. Mwahahaha!”

The scene diverted the unwelcome thoughts rushing through his mind. He would have to make a decision soon. To leave the dangerous companion who had kept him alive, or to stay and risk being darkspawn dinner one night in exchange for the possibility of fame and fortune.

Of course, that fame and fortune would have to be at the expense of said darkspawn.

With a sigh he pulled the lady rock out of the circle and, speaking in an awful falsetto, addressed the villainous stone. “I have no fear for my hero will save me! And when he does, you will pay for this!”

“Looky 'ere boys. We've found us a pay day.”

Simon leapt to his feet as the raspy voice sounded behind him. Or, _tried_ to leap to his feet rather. At the swift motion the still healing wound in his belly took that moment to tear open again, felling him with the pain before he could even see who it was that threatened.

Xxxx

 

“Come, little bird: fly faster, fly home. Your wind-beaten wing-beats have carried you far.” Angelica's voice was husky and cracked. The still healing injury to her vocal chords exacerbated by overuse.

The last two days had been filled with long lines of desperate people pleaing for the Maker's aid. Lines made even longer by those pleaing for the Maker's love. And, sadly, longer still by those who wanted contact with someone of perceived fame (or infamy really if she were being honest) to boost their own importance.

She smiled down at Salvisa's happy face, taking a moment to kiss the tiny fists before she continued. Yes, it hurt her throat to sing, but the infant loved this old lullaby so very much that she couldn't deny her. Of course, the truth was a bit closer to home. She loved these moments of quiet with _her_ baby. They restored her hope in spite of the dire consequences of her gifts.

“Is your soul so weary? So lonely as mine?” She wrinkled her nose at that line. Weary, yes indeed. Lonely, not as much now she had the infant and the children back in her life…but still.

That first night trapped in this room with Maxwell had been awkward and uncomfortable for them both. He'd offered her the bed and slept on the couch when she'd so thoroughly spurned his advances.

And spurn them she had. But only after some internal struggle. A remembered passion making her feel something as he kissed her, followed by the continuing mental debate of the merits of the safety of being the Inquisitor's lover versus freedom and honesty. Unbidden, the image of Varric's expression as he'd touched her face in the garden had intruded, giving her the strength to say no, regardless of the consequences. He'd left in the morning with the grey warden that wanted her dead, which only meant those consequences would be delayed until his return.

A squeak from the infant turned her attention back to the wriggling bundle in her arms. “Sorry, sweeting, I got distracted.” Smiling she returned to the song, punctuating the last words of the verse with little kisses to the fuzzy pate.

“No moonlight outshines your bright-” her voice stumbled as another voice joined hers without warning.

“No moonlight outshines your bright home guiding star.”

Angelica turned to face the spymistress. “Your voice is beautiful.”

Leliana smiled from her entry at the top of the staircase. “Well, I was a bard. Singing rather came with the territory.” When the red haired woman sighed and moved to join her on the edge of the bed, the brunette woman couldn't help but reflect on how gentle the hand was that touched Salvisa's face. A hand that had also spilled so very much blood.

It made her both sad and uncomfortable to have the deadly woman this close to her, even though she'd become her staunchest supporter. Reigning in the urge to move away, Angelica smiled instead, relinquishing her fear for the moment.

“Somehow, I don't think you came just to see the baby.”

The spymistress laughed. “Well, she is an adorable baby, and the progeny of the Inquisitor and the Voice of the Maker. Anyone would be curious.” The laugh faded quickly, leaving an expression of such severity that Angelica felt her heart grow cold.

Clearly noting her change in expression, Leliana nodded. “But you are correct. The Chantry representatives have issued a threat. Cleverly couched to avoid open guilt, but they desire to take you to Val Royeaux for _questioning_. Either with or without the blessing of the Inquisition.” The way she said the word questioning made Angelica's heart grow even colder with fear.

“What should I do?” Her cracked voice trembled with the words and the spymistress took her hand in a gesture of calming.

“We have told them we will not release you to them. But that doesn't mean they won't try to push the issue. We have allowed you an amount of freedom, these last two days, to do the Maker's work.” The woman's voice became subtly harder as she stood and drew away the comforting hand. “I'm sorry, but that freedom can't be allowed to continue while you are in such danger. Once the threat is past you will be allowed to wander the castle again, but for now, you are confined to these quarters. Only the infant and her nurse will be allowed entrance past the guards.”

Still fearful, Angelica nodded in agreement. “I understand.”

“Good. I am confident the threat will resolve itself quickly.” Leliana smiled at her. An unusually gentle smile. “Take heart. We cannot deny the people the visible love of the Maker for long.” And almost like smoke she disappeared down the stairs.

The rest of the evening passed quietly with the companionship of the nurse, tea, dinner and the now sleeping infant.

Her sleep that night was sound and without nightmares.

It wasn't until she awoke, bound, gagged and moving in a darkened carriage that she realized why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The “Ferelden Lullaby” lyrics and music was composed by the wonderful writer, loquaciousquark (found on AO3, FF.net and Tumblr). 
> 
> There is an amazing performance by Irene Zhong on bandcamp if you'd like to hear it sung (in an amazing and haunting way). https://irenezhong.bandcamp.com/track/a-fereldan-lullaby-cover 
> 
> Full lyrics below:
> 
> Come, little bird: fly faster, fly home.  
> Your wind-beaten wing-beats have carried you far.  
> Is your soul so weary? so lonely as mine?  
> No moonlight outshines your bright home-guiding star.
> 
> What green wood flew you by? What white waves soared you through?  
> What high star-peaked mountains leapt you in the dark?  
> Wonderer, wanderer, bitter-sweet yearning,  
> Come back, little bird, my hearth-home, my heart.


	18. not really a chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not really a chapter. This is heavy movie filming time as an actor and I have a troublesome project in post production. Nothing is abandoned. Just a heads up that I likely won't be posting for a couple more weeks until after we make our Sundance film festival submission.

BLOOD, GUTS, ACTION, HUMOR AND ROMANCE.... all to be found in the next chapter in two weeks...ish.


	19. Prisoners and Plotting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All things were left cliffhanging... and that cliff is still pretty dang close.

Simon groaned as his third...? Fourth bout of consciousness faded in with it's accompanying agony.

Still bound? Check. Still bleeding out of his belly? If the moist feeling around his middle was any indication, check. Still in the hands of the scum that was even worse scum than he was? The rude laughter muffled by the canvas of the wagon indicated a checkaroo on that too.

Still in the Maker's Man Tits worth of trouble? Big double check there.

Letting his head thunk back in despair was rather a mistake as a groan of agony alerted his captors to his aware state.

“Well, isn’t that nice. Here we was gettin’ bored and wham bam, there’s our entertainment all awake again.”

Simon cringed inside as a man as ugly as his voice was rough shoved his way past the canvas flap. Just great…Huron was his tormentor for today. He managed just a moment of pride that the cringe didn’t show on the outside, until the rough man poked a finger into the wound in his belly.

No shame in screaming when you’re in that much pain, right?

“Ooooo sounds just like a little girl there.”

Simon gritted his teeth over his pain and glared at his tormenter. “You know I’m going to kill you, right?”

The man laughed, garnering answering snickers from the matchingly rough gang of men bustling through camp setup outside. “Well, little girl, not sure that bleeding on me is actually gonna kill me.” Another harsh poke at his belly wound made Simon scream again. “But it may just kill you.” More laughter from the u audience.

Huron leaned in to hiss his next words into Simon’s face. “You’re a blight on the good Maker’s earth and I’d just love killing you myself...all that innocent blood on your hands. But the bounty is more if we bring you in alive.”

“Like you’re any better. I saw the bodies you left behind you at Southmere.” Maybe if he got angry enough, he could fight the pain and at least kill this one piece of shit before he died in an avalanche of human shaped feces.

“You’ll wish I’d done the same to you by time we get you to your hangin’” Huron accompanied his sneering words with a particularly vicious twist at Simon’s bleeding belly wound.

His screaming nearly drowned out the thought that maybe the rope would be the better choice.

XXXX

“Blackmail?” Varric’s voice held less humor than his expression.

“No. That would hurt her too since she was there.” Cole’s expression was it’s usual unhelpful neutral.

“There? Oh, you mean the baby? There has to be other things he could be blackmailed about.”

“Skin, peace, her eyes make him feel like someone who could do good. He can’t bear to feel the bad that makes the good come out.”

“Well shit…okay, so then we just need to set up a situation that he could be blackmailed about in the present.”

Cole looked over at him with an expression of distress. Such an expression was notable in it’s rarity on Cole’s youthful face and Varric grimaced. Probably not going to be something he wanted to hear. Cole seemed to excel at telling him things he didn’t want to hear.

“But that hurts him. I don’t like hurting the good people.”

“Good is a relative term here. But yeah, I hear ya kid. Well then, we’ll just have to think of something else.” Varric sighed as he leaned back in the saddle. The two had fallen behind the rest of the group riding unhappily through the sand of the Western Approach.

How does one go about stealing a woman from the most powerful man in Thedas? Yeah, he could have Maxwell assassinated, but then the world would suffer as demons drowned every country in blood. So violence wasn’t the answer. At least, not the first answer.

Which meant the question actually was…

“How does one go about making someone WANT to be stolen from?”

“They can hear you.”

Varric started from his reverie to see Chuckles and the General glaring back at him and Cole. Well, Maxwell was glaring. Chuckles looked tired and disturbed but wasn’t glaring per-se.

“Hey, just two rogues debating the finer points of their craft.” Varric winked at Cole who cocked his head in confusion. He gestured for the spirit boy to go ahead and Cole spoke slowly. “Yes, we are debating...nothing that has anything to do with Maxwell.”

A piercing look that spoke volumes about how little the Inquisitor trusted him and then Maxwell and Solas turned their attention back to the empty sand ahead. Varric sighed again, then smiled at his perplexed friend.

“You lied kid. I’d say that’s progress!”

XXXX

Angelica shifted uncomfortably on the pile of dirty fabric that had cushioned her bound form against the movement of the wagon that day...and for an uncountable number of days before. A prison wagon, but with boards nailed roughly and swiftly over the bars that would have allowed a modicum of light and fresh air through. The smell would have been overwhelming but for the banks of roses that had sprung from the dry wood and wound around the iron bars.

In her heart of hearts, she knew that the Maker wouldn’t allow her to die until she’d completed… whatever it was he meant for her to do. But her fallible human self feared the pain she knew was coming and raged with fear for 'her' baby.

Her journey as a prisoner of the Chantry had begun with open bars, although at the time she hadn’t considered that a blessing. Her captors had used that egress to preach and to threaten and to hurl insults and detritus at the false “Voice of the Maker”. She’d plead and begged to be allowed to hold her daughter, the infant held tauntingly just out of her reach.

Pushed enough, she had even threatened them, pronouncing punishment for their cruelty in keeping Salvisa from her. She was fairly certain that her gentle heart had pulled all the teeth from the threat and they had just laughed at her boldness.

And then one of the younger sisters had come to hurl accusations and she’d felt it. The fear in the young woman’s heart for a body ailing beyond the ability of healers to repair. Fear of death and fear that the Maker she’d served all her adult life would not hear in her time of illness. And she’d loved that trembling form and frightened heart. And she’d spoken the Maker’s love and touched the robed woman’s angry face through the bars.

She could tell that the woman felt the healing as wonder suffused the previously angry face.

By the evening four more of the Chantry retinue had slipped up to the bars to whisper their fear and their need and their faith to her. And she had healed them with her love.

By the next morning the boards had been placed over the bars under the raging oversight of Mother Beate so that none could have access to her but the two who cared the least for the Maker’s love. Mother Beate herself and the twisted man who made time to brag about the tortures he himself would submit her to when they arrived in Val Royeaux. He’d given her his name, Giardin, but she refused to speak it out loud (predominantly because it seemed to infuriate him). She could love with the Maker’s love, but she could hate with a woman’s rage and the small tortures he’d meted out over the last however many days had certainly earned that hate.

So now she traveled in rose scented darkness, unable to tell how many days she’d been taken towards the horrors they threatened when they arrived at the heart of the Chantry. Sleep had become her only real solace and she felt herself succumbing to it again, though she was unsure if it was day or night.

 

_The towers that spired around her could only have been erected by magic, she thought. Their impossible fragility would never have survived the raising otherwise. Fresh air swirled around them like a vibrant promise. If freedom had a scent, that would be it, she realized._

_As if summoned by the thoughts of solace, a man walked warily into view, hands at the ready. Perhaps to cast a spell as she’d seen before...where had she seen it? Memories of a blue flame prison faded in and then melded to impossible iron bars, hanging unsupported in the air._

_Solas, that was his name she recalled as he came to stand on the other side of the impossible bars._

_She’d dreamed of him once before hadn’t she? Although that time it had been the Maker who had spoken. Would he speak through her again? Hesitantly she tested her voice in this airy place. “Solas, I know I’m dreaming. Are you dreaming too, or is this just part of my dream?”_

_He started at her words. He hadn’t expected her to speak perhaps? Or not speak as herself._

“ _The answer is both.” He gestured and the bars faded from around her to her relief. “However, that does leave a question.” He circled behind her so she couldn’t see his expression. “Who is speaking? The Voice or the Maker?”_

 _She opened her mouth to say it was just her, but other words came out. “_ _Din'anshiral_ _ir Angelica. Ma ghilan,_ _ma_ _da’len.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish translation: “Angelica is on a journey of death. You must guide help to her, my little one.”
> 
> All my summer and fall traveling is out of the way so now I can get back on my weekly schedule for this, Maker willing.


	20. Regret is a forked path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regret is a long path with a fork in it. One side leads to salvation. One side leads to darkness.

Why the shit couldn’t he sleep? At least get some respite from this Maker cursed hell of sand and heat and every blasted biting insect in this world and the next. Why? Maker? Why do you hate us?

His internal grumbling finally started getting on even his own nerves and Varric gave up the attempt to sleep. With a final external grumble he grabbed pen and paper and, yawning, slouched towards the fire at the center of the camp. “Maybe killing off a well-loved character will make me feel better.” 

With the unconscious practice of years of roguish adventures, he found himself scanning the camp for anything out of the ordinary. A practice he’d gotten into even before he’d met the troublemaker, Hawke. A habit learned to avoid the approaching firelight destroying any ability to make out changes or threats to the sleeping figures in the dark.

He could see where the aforementioned troublemaker Hawke slept. Spread out and seemingly uncaring that he took the space of two men, those around him huddled together, unconsciously compressed to make more room for the aggressive Champion.

Maxwell slept in the Inquisitors tent...or Varric assumed he was sleeping. The guards that surrounded it looked unconcerned at the moment. In fact, everyone in the camp looked at peace tonight but him. He could see the moving glow of the firelight catching in the eyes of Leliana’s hidden guards as they patrolled the darkness beyond the camp.

With the skill of those hidden killers on their side, perhaps everyone had a right to sleep peacefully tonight. So why couldn’t he?

A sound drew his attention just as he’d gotten all his writing implements set up how he liked them. Off just beyond the edge of camp…

Dagger drawn and writing abandoned the dwarven rogue slipped into the invisibility of darkness and made his way towards the sound.

Solas camp? The elven man usually laid his bedroll away from the others. Varric had always assumed it was so he could explore the fade unwatched while dreaming. Normally, Varric couldn’t sneak up on the apostate (something that had bothered him to no end early in their ‘friendship’). Always the elven man sensed his approach, almost like magic. And perhaps it was. Varric was certainly no expert on magic.

Clearly tonight’s dream wasn’t a pleasant one as Solas tossed and muttered, unaware of the dwarf’s concerned gaze. Should he wake him? How badly did he want to be a frog? Naw. Chuckle’s nightmares weren’t his concern.

_“Din'anshiral ir Angelica”_

The barely muttered elven words stopped Varric in his tracks as he turned to go back to his writing.

He didn’t know what the rest of it meant, but Angelica? Why was Solas dreaming of her?

Not for a moment did he think that it may be a different Angelica and with suspicion came action. “Hey buddy, hey Chuckles. Time to wake up.” He shook the elven man’s shoulder and sleep heavy eyes fluttered open.

“Hey there, just me your friendly dwarven...ur...friend. You were having a bad dream.” Hands raised he stepped quickly back and away from the rather terrifying intensity of the waking man’s eyes. “I don’t look good as a frog, just sayin’. Looked like a hell of a nightmare there.”

“Thank you.” For all Solas’ love of lecturing he was being unusually uncommunicative at that moment. Time to draw him out perhaps.

“So, care to share any of it? They say sharing helps.”

Solas turned his piercing gaze back on the dwarf and Andraste’s tits, if it didn’t take him a bit of willpower not to step away. The silence lengthened as the mage seemed almost to speak. Clearly debating with himself about…something.

Finally, with a heavy sigh and a slump of his shoulders the elven man gestured back to the camp fire. “No, my friend. I am alright. I have nothing to speak about.”

XXXX

If Simon had any belief in the Maker at all he’d be praying right now. Of course, with the kind of life he’d lead, he doubted the Maker would do anything but cheer at the pain he was currently in.

“Fuck you,” he muttered to nobody in particular since he didn’t have the faith even to curse the Maker really. Even that little bit of rebellion made his body clench in pain.

Pain…that was his whole life now. They’d stopped torturing him, what was it, a day ago? Only because, in the words of that snake Huron “He’ll die afore we get to Jader and we’ll lose out on the 20 extra sovereigns for the pleasure a hangin’ him themselves.”

He could feel it. Death creeping in around the edges of the pain. Taunting him with ever growing nothingness. If they didn’t hurry, he’d still die before the authorities had the pleasure of witnessing his comeuppance. And then the look on Huron’s face would be priceless.

It made him sad that he wouldn’t live to see it.

As the sounds of the camp quieted about him, he realized it must be late night. No opportunity for him to sleep though, not with this much pain. And who was it who’d said your life passed before your eyes before you died? So much damn bullshit.

But what was the name of that girl? The one in Velun that had looked at him with such trusting eyes before he killed her. Regret was for the well to do. Those living on the bottom between starvation and someone elses life had no time for such nonsense.

But here, in that waking place on death’s front porch, he had to admit he regretted that.

With as much focus as he could muster this close to death he pushed her image from his mind. Or tried to. It seemed as though she stood there at the edge of the wagon’s dark corners, still looking at him with trusting eyes.

Next to that phantom image appeared another. This name he remembered, Dougar, the old smith who’d taken him in as a child. Dougar who’d died of ill health, calling his name after he’d run off for the supposed glamour of a life of crime. He regretted Dougar. He regretted Emelise who he’d left behind when the authorities had come calling. He still wondered (or feared perhaps) what had happened to her in that slum without his protection.

As the long night progressed, Simon began to feel as though he was drowning. Each face passing in his memory filling that sea of regret more and more. Until finally he shouted… okay he whispered, a shout being way beyond his physical ability at that point, his pain at the only voice that might possibly hear it.

“Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me...” He didn’t have the words to voice more. It wasn’t even a prayer really. Only “Forgive me.” over and over as a mantra to his ending washed clean with his tears of regret.

As his voice began to fade, the sounds from outside began to penetrate the dying knave’s awareness.

A battle? Part of the Orlesian civil war that he’d fled a year ago?

The attackers were too silent to be Orlesian. Orlesians were a loud lot. He should know, he was one of them. The screams of the bandits and the clash of weapons were the only sound.

The fighting drew closer to his wagon and one scream particularly loud, made him smile. A grim smile, but a smile nonetheless. It sounded like Huron would beat him into hell.

After that, a few small cries of pain and then things grew silent outside the thin canvas. Very silent for what should be a group of attackers ransacking the camp.

Too silent.

Finally heavy footsteps outside the wagon signaled one of the attackers approaching. He could feel the tension in his weakened body rising. Not that he could do anything to defend himself in his current state.

That didn’t stop him from flinching as the wagon’s canvas was torn end to end by a powerful clawed hand. The monstrous face that appeared in the opening nearly made him faint. 

“Hriend?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter I know. BIG things happen in the next one and I didn't want these moments lost in the bru ha ha of the next chapter.


	21. Untainted Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Maker has abandoned his children. At least, that is what Mother Beate had been taught her whole life.

She would be so glad to arrive in Val Royeaux and turn this troublesome problem over to the clerics at the Grand Cathedral.

Mother Beate stretched surreptitiously in the saddle. Of course Mother Mariette had ever so piously taken her place at the head of the well-armed column of Chantry faithful. Leaving the younger cleric to deal alternately with the mercenaries they’d hired for this journey and the problems surrounding transporting such a troublesome prisoner.

One that seemed set on converting the faithful in the delegation to her worship. Mother Beate knew in her deepest heart that the Voice of the Maker was a lie.

She had first understood the absence of the Maker when her parents had given her away as a child to the Chantry initiates. She’d felt the absence of the Maker as she wept through the beatings administered for every perceived flaw of the children. She’d known utterly of the absence of the Maker when the bright flame of hope that was Divine Justinia had been snuffed out without so much as a warning.

The young Mother grimaced. Maker take the blasphemer. “May her death be ignoble and slow in coming at the hands of the Divine Inflictors.”

“What was that Revered Mother?”

She turned towards the Brother who rode next to her and smiled. “Just commenting on how glad I will be when we set camp tonight.” He nodded in agreement. “Indeed Revered Mother, it has been an exceptionally long day in the saddle.” She afforded herself a sigh in commiseration and a quick glance at the roughly boarded over wagon behind her.

They were nearly to Jader. Once there, perhaps she would be able to find another cleric to ride herd on the undisciplined so that she may enjoy one of the many carriages that dotted the caravan.

It couldn’t be too soon for her tastes.

XXXX

“Eyes sorrow-blinded, in darkness unbroken. There 'pon the mountain, a voice answered my call. Yes, yes it did. Heart that is broken, beats still unceasing, in an ocean of sorrow does nobody drown. You have forgotten, spear-maid of…I don’t have a spear though. I don’t even know how to use one.”

Angelica’s whisper fell into silence as she flexed freezing fingers in a vain attempt to warm them.

The wagon was slowing. Was it night already? Her sigh turned into an ironic laugh. It was always night for her now. Rose scented night. She wondered if the roses were pale or withering without the sunlight. She lifted a cold hand before her unseeing eyes. Was she withering as well? It felt like it.

“Within My creation, none are alone."

Maker knew she’d had enough time to ponder her situation here in the dark. At first she’d shivered and screamed and suffered at the memories of another time she’d been bound in the dark. At least a small blessing...this extended darkness had let all those scenarios play out until they were exhausted. Until she was drained and emotionally threadbare, but the nightmares had finally lost their power over her.

Now a new nightmare as she ached for her child... children...the lost daughter and the newly found daughter. (And the Maker knew she was hers. She believed with every part of her heart that he had given Salvisa to her as a gift to calm her mourning heart.) She also found herself desperately missing the handful of children whom she had taken under her wing, unreliable though it had turned out to be. After what may have been weeks without conversation or any normal human interaction, she found she missed the friends she’d begun to make at Skyhold, Dorian, Sera and Varric.

Varric, that was a more complex missing. Why did she find his face coming to mind so often in the dark. When she’d been most despairing, it had been as if she could hear his gravelly voice. “Hey Frosty, nothing like a little vacation in Orlais to raise the ‘spirits’. I hear the ‘whine’ is good in Val Royeaux this time of year.”

Did he miss her? The conversation Maxwell had interrupted played over in her mind. The stocky man had sounded like he was...what? Offering something more than just friendship? His blanket was big enough for the both of them, he’d said. Did that mean what she thought it did?

Would she want that?

Did it even matter now that she was heading to what may well be her agonized death?

Did...what was that sound outside? She sat up, hair catching on the thorns that surrounded her, heart turning cold.

She recognized that sound.

Then another sound...the lock of the door turning over with a faint click. The door opened as she cringed back, but instead of her tormentor Giardin, a thin elven face appeared. One that had once conjured fear in her but at this moment brought only overwhelming relief.

“Zelen?”

“Shhhh, ma da’len. Did you really think the Nightingale would leave you unprotected?”

She nearly threw herself at him, hugging him tightly. “I...” Her throat closed on her words and he spared a moment to hug her back, expression perhaps a bit more tender than he’d ever shown her before. “Shhhh, it is alright. It took longer than I liked for them to leave the wagon unwatched. We must go quickly.”

“What about my baby?” Angelica pulled back to look up pleading into his eyes.

His face sobered. “I will have to come back for her after I have you to a place of safety.”

“NO. No, we must take her now or they will harm her in retaliation.” He moved ahead of her out the door and she stopped. She would not allow it. She would not lose another child. Not one.

“Come now! They will turn their attention to you again very soon.” He hissed vehemently. “NO.” She hissed vehemently back. “I’m not leaving without my baby.”

“Fenedhis! Dirthara-ma!” He looked in surprise at the stubborn set of her jaw and sighed. “Alright, I will take you out of here and fetch the infant while you hide. If we both die, I’m blaming you to the Creator.”

XXXX

Mother Beate sank back into the brocade slung folding chair that had been placed for her comfort as those subordinate to her completed setting the night’s camp. “Would you like tea, Revered Mother?” The attentive Brother who had ridden next to her had been a true boon on this journey. She’d made sure to note his name for promotion. She afforded him a smile. “Yes, thank you Brother Pierren. That would be most pleasant.”

“Most pleasant indeed. Please bring two cups if you would.” They both turned in deference to the aging woman that smiled gently as she usurped the Brother’s now vacated seat. “Mother Mariette, what brings you to dignify this less loved corner of the procession with such august presence?” The younger cleric’s voice bordered on bitterness. She was exhausted enough that she didn’t care if the older cleric noted it.

“I have been thinking. We are close now to Jader and the civilization that makes the secrecy of our journey a bit more problematic.” The old biddy…yes, in her head she’d said it. The old _biddy_ wore a look of pious concern which likely meant someone was going to be killed. Not showing her thoughts on the outside (she wasn’t ready to take on the older woman’s authority just yet) Beate lowered her head in deference. “A concern indeed.”

“Perhaps it is time to silence the false Voice before it can cause any more damage.”

The younger cleric looked at the older in barely concealed surprise. “The Grand Cleric gave strict orders that the woman was to brought before her.”

“And bring her we shall. But how dangerous is a Voice without a tongue?” The kindly twinkle with which Mariette delivered the statement was chilling. Beate would definitely have to learn how to do that.

And it seemed a wise move. Unable to speak her blasphemy, the woman wouldn’t be able to bring the masses to rise up against them. For that matter, she would be unable to testify against the treatment she had endured, or call for help from those who may support her in the cities they would be passing through on their way to the capitol.

And of course Mariette would leave it to her to do...wrapping her own self in the mantle of plausible deniability. The great Game…but Beate was learning how to play wisely. Indeed, she wouldn’t have risen so far if she hadn’t. Perhaps she could turn Mariette’s distance from the affair into a weapon in her own diplomatic arsenal.

“I will see that it is done tonight.”

“You do great service to your order. Thank you Revered Mother.” As the older woman rose to return to her own, more rarefied section of the camp Beate offered her own obeisance. Thoughts already turning to various machinations. “Revered Mother.”

As she watched the straight back of her superior amble away, Beate gestured to the initiate nearest her. “Bring Brother Giardin to me immediately.” A swift “Yes Revered Mother,” and the girl was off to do her bidding.

As Brother Pierren approached with two cups of tea and a confused face at the absence of the other mother, she smiled. The sun had just dipped below the horizon and twilight was fading to torch lit darkness. Dark would be the best time for such things.

A scream split the peace of the night and then a flurry of activity at the edge of the camp. Beate took a sip of the fragrant beverage she now held. Dark was also the best time for bandit attacks apparently. As the mercenaries they’d hired leapt to arms, she leaned back in her chair and pondered how foolish it was of them to attack such a well armed camp.

Cries echoed from the section of camp behind her and she found her heart speed just a little as the clash of arms to either side showed a coordinated attack on all flanks.

How many bandits were there? Most didn’t have a large enough fighting force to surround such a large caravan. Beate leapt to her own feet, hand reflexively reaching for a weapon that hadn’t hung at her side since she’d been promoted to Revered Mother.

The peace of the camp was devolving rapidly as the unarmed screamed and fled, or huddled in frightened masses at the center as the fighting pushed inwards from the perimeter. Beate could see where Marriete stood, a calm eye in the center of the storm, surrounded by her own private guard. A guard that seemed uninterested in defending those who huddled near them, she noted with a sniff of envious disdain.

A screaming body, spurting blood from somewhere fell across her vision and her attention drew back to her own area and her first view of the attackers. She froze as all action around her fell into the slow motion of shock and horror.

Darkspawn.

Perhaps her stillness prompted them to take the resisting targets first. She was uncertain the reason, but she stood in shock, unharmed as the people around her fell to the horde, slicking the ground in pools of black and red.

She watched, frozen, as milky eyes glared at her then turned to strike down another in her stead. Silent teeth tearing out the throat of a brother. Silent hands grabbing a young sister and dragging her alive towards the edge of camp. The people screamed and roared and wept and yet the attackers were silent.

She watched, frozen, as Brother Pierren took a blow meant for her, falling at her feet with eyes that seemed a curse as they stared in emptiness at her. And Giardin, swearing in three languages fought and fought and finally died at the hands of evil as twisted as he was

She watched, frozen, as Mariette’s guard fell one by one and then the cleric they protected, straight and unflinching as a twisted form cleaved her in two.

And she knew again the absence of a Maker that would turn away from even his highest ranking clerics.

She was distracted in her dreamlike state, by the oddness of a strange elven man carrying a bundled (the bundled?) infant and dodging weapon blows and grabbing claws as he worked his way towards the edge of camp. Not a blow managed to connect, his lithe body evasive and wraith-like in it’s movement. If she survived this, she would hire him...she thought absently.

And then the woman walked out of the darkness. The woman they’d imprisoned, the false Voice of the Maker.

She walked out of the darkness rather than run for safety. Why did she do such a thing? How did she get free of the cage they’d put her in? Questions ran through the young Mother’s mind as she stood there, frozen witness to….something.

The woman walked calmly out of the darkness and to the center of camp, opening her hands as the strange elven man cursed and ran towards her.

To Beate’s surprise, the darkspawn uttered sound for the first time. They howled and converged on the false Voice of the Maker. A mass of twisted, seething evil that would tear the woman apart she was sure.

The woman opened her hands and touched the first of the blood soaked horde and they froze before they could strike her. She lifted her head and smiled….

Maker she SMILED at the horrific beasts and as one body they stilled. “The Maker loves you.” She spoke so that all could hear, even Beate in her shock padded cocoon. “The Maker loves you and you are his children.”

And the darkspawn ran, howling into the night, striking all in their path in their desperation to escape this one small woman’s presence.

Beate barely noted the beast that struck her down. As she fell, she smiled.

The Maker was not absent after all.

 


	22. Leading Questions

The aftermath of shock and despair held the ruined camp in silence for a moment, and then another, and another. The moments stretching on to minutes before any of the survivors had the courage to move.

The glow of the love she’d held for the monsters finally faded and Angelica’s attention wandered across the ruined camp in a daze. Standing alone in the center of the carnage she couldn’t bring her eyes to focus on the death around her. Instead she skimmed the surface of things. A red fabric that looked black in the light of a wagon that still burned from the attack. The sharp angled shadow that the Revered Mother’s hat made over the gore beneath it. An ornate tea cup laying inexplicably whole in the center of the rubble.

It had been different this time. The Maker’s love had gone out from her in what had felt like a great blast of light. So much that it had filled the area beyond even where her own vision could see. Now her vision blurred from shock and the fading fear that had screamed at the back of her mind as she’d left her hiding place to do the Maker’s bidding. What had that meant, that they were his children? Why them, horrifying monsters that they were?

What now?

A fretting cry, quickly soothed, drew her attention. Zelen stood there, staring at her with fear and awe warring for dominance in his expression. Silently she held out her arms and silently he deposited his precious burden into them.

Salvisa screwed up her tiny face to let out a true wail and Angelica smiled as she kissed the upset infant.

“It’s okay, little one. We will be okay.”

“Worship...” The voice was tentative and quiet but it drew her attention from her baby.

She didn’t recognize his face, but the simplicity of his blood spattered tunic spoke of a servant of no special rank. His expression mimicked Zelen’s in it’s mingled emotions. Behind him more of the survivors gathered silently. Afraid to get too close to her it seemed, but afraid to run into the darkness as well. Why didn’t he say anything else?

The gathering crowd made her uncomfortable. They were looking at her. Waiting, clearly, but for what?

As the firelight played over their frightened faces, she took a tally of those who still lived. A few soldiers but the bulk of them were servants and initiates. Those of rank it seemed had not survived. Her heart quailed as she realized what they were waiting for.

A leader.

Unwanted and unwarranted, it seemed they expected her, the ignorant peasant and ex-chantry sister, to step into that role.

No. They _needed_ her to step into that role. Surrounded by death and blood and the terror of monsters in the night, they needed someone to take charge. The Voice of the Maker they called her, and so they turned to her now in their time of extremity.

This was something her healing touch couldn’t fix, even as love for them flooded her fearful heart. This was another thing that the woman was needed for more than the Maker.

It took her twice before she could get quiet words out of a throat constricted by the fear of responsibility for those gathered around her. “Zelen, what is the nearest town they can be safe in?”

To Zelen’s credit, she noted, he didn’t ask who ‘they’ were. Instead he nodded, the mask of joviality he generally wore pulled over his fear and awe again. “Jader, your worship.”

“Don’t call me Worship, please. Just call me Angelica.” He nodded silently at her request. “Will you help me lead these people there?”

“My orders are to return you to Skyhold wor...uh...Angelica.” It was her turn to nod.

“I know. But I won’t allow these to be abandoned without safety. We will take them to Jader and THEN we will go to Skyhold.”

The look on his face at this second time of her giving him orders almost made her smirk.

XXXX

Solas watched, an island of calm as Maxwell stormed around the camp in a worried fury.

Apparently he’d just received the news of Angelica’s kidnapping. They’d found the wardens and stopped the ritual which was their reason for being in these wasted lands. Maxwell had initially intended to explore further as they’d discovered signs of much needed mineral deposits hidden in the desert.

Now, however, they would be returning with all haste to Skyhold. What good that would do for either Maxwell or the missing woman he felt was debatable. But the emotionality of the humans made it an unsurprising choice.

He almost snorted to himself at his hypocrisy. The emotions that mention of the human woman inhabited by the oldest of Gods brought out in him were certainly no less powerful than those of the people that seemed to love her.

Love, however, was not what he felt.

No, that wasn’t fully true either, he nearly grimaced to himself. Fear was certainly there, as was anger, puzzlement, pride…and buried deep beneath all these, love for the father who had once whispered in his own heart when the world was still new. It was uncomfortable, facing one whose power rivaled his own, but whose goals were a mystery still.

He was saved more pondering by the interruption of a familiar voice.

“Well, Chuckles, it’s not my favorite reason for leaving this Void-taken desert. You have any thoughts on all this?”

He turned to smile gently at the still suspicious dwarf. “I have a great many thoughts on everything.”

XXXX

The Largest of the Mother’s Children was confused.

 _Feelings_ , Simon had called them when he’d been almost overwhelmed as he pulled the human from the wagon and clutched him to his blood soaked chest. He hadn’t understood the other words he’d babbled weakly at him. But he’d understood...no...he’d felt something that had gone right through his monstrous body. It was right that his _friend_ was with him. It was more than right…

It was necessary.

How such a fragile being had come to hold such a place of importance to him was strange. It was wrong from the way he had been taught by the Mother. But the Mother was gone from his head and he was no longer her most trusted of children. He still felt...badly...about it, but somehow he didn’t feel so lost when the human was there.

But the human was fragile and failing. He could smell the stink of death on him. What would happen when the human died?

Even his monstrous mind rejected the thought. Somehow he would find someone to help.

He’d strode from the scene of horrendous massacre with the man clutched to him like an infant. His grip more gentle than the bloodbath that surrounded them would have indicated. The human’s eyes had grown huge at the sight.

Indeed, he’d taken joy in the deaths of the men who had taken his Simon from him. He’d _reveled_ in their fear and the explosions of blood that they became under his blows. He’d almost been sad when he’d rent the last of them apart. He’d calmed himself though, before opening the wooden prison and taking his friend from it.

So now what?

The sun had set fully so it was a good time for travel with his dark-attuned eyes. Perhaps he should find the humans who had their young with them. He had seen the evidence of human healers as he’d slaughtered his way across the surface at his mother’s behest, and he was was fairly certain that was where he could find them. With that thought the Largest of the Mother’s Children stopped to scent the air.

Humanity…they were close to a large gathering of them. One of their nests. The question would be how to get them to help his human while not frightening them. He stood still as his mind pondered the question.

And then he felt it.

Like a gentle touch on the edge of his mind. A mesmerizing song just out of reach. The Light.

It felt different now. Tainted as he was no longer. Singing as the Archdemon had but without it’s inexorable draw. The Light would help. The Light was where he should be. Somehow in his untainted mind he knew it. With certainty came action and he took a step in that direction.

And then he felt _them_.

There, in his head as it had always been, the Horde screamed in fear and confusion.. No, not HIS horde. These minds he didn’t know as he’d known his underlings. But still he felt them and his heart nearly burst with exultation.

He was no longer alone in silence!

They had lost contact with their mother they wailed silently, just as he had when he’d become changed. They ran, panicked and afraid.

So as the general he had been, he called silently back to them. “Come to me, the Largest of the Mother’s Children.” And he felt them calm as they responded. Not to a Mother, but still one who could lead them.

They would come, and they would be his. And he would find the Light that sang with the beauty of an archdemon, and she would help his Simon.

And perhaps, if they pleased her, the Light would be their new mother.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting. In the good news, we had a truly successful table read in LA of two episodes of the TV series we have in development. A level actors and writers make for real magic and it was so nice to hear that in action. 
> 
> The bad news is that we're still working on distribution for it so you all don't get to enjoy it just yet. :D


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